


Heir to the Telling Senses

by Author376



Series: Acquaint the Flesh [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All the Direwolves - Freeform, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Gods only know what's going to happen, It's Westeros, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-05-30 15:32:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 68,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19406179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author376/pseuds/Author376
Summary: Princess Lyarra's Child is Due, Winter is Coming, Cersei Lannister is plotting, and it won't make a bit of sense if you haven't read the rest of the series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Madrigal_in_training](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madrigal_in_training/gifts).



> Huge thanks to everyone who has read any of the works in this series and commented. Without your encouragement none of this would exist. The same goes for GRRM and the show makers for creating an awesome world everyone wants to play in (but nobody wants to live in). 
> 
> Even bigger thanks to Madrigal_in_Training, who's beta-reading this nonsense again.

**Sunspear, Dorne, 298 A.C.**

It was hot and dry, as only Dorne can be in the days where summer gives it’s final reckoning, and makes a run towards autumn with the desperate glory of a faded knight’s last charge down a jousting pitch. A true daughter of the North should have hated such weather. A _real_ Stark should have looked for the deepest, darkest, recesses of the Sandship’s lower levels and hidden in the ugly, but practical part of the Martell keep’s cool darkness found there.

Lyarra thought that Lady Stark might have finally been pleased with her for _finally_ doing something so obviously un-Starklike. The woman had spent years enough disliking Lyarra for her existence and her looks. Lyarra had come to the South expecting to make the best of hot weather. Instead she’d found that it had its own joys. Just as there was a wonderful freshness in feeling a chill wind whip across your face or the first clean breath of air after a snowfall, there was a wonderfully warm, sleepy lassitude that stole over a body when lying in the sun on a really _hot_ day. It was restful.

Nearly eight moons pregnant now, if not already there, and _all_ Lyarra wanted to do was rest. Yes, she’d been tired before in her pregnancy. She’d likely felt more rundown in the beginning, just in terms of feeling ill and dizzy. Now that the dizziness was easier for her to anticipate and the morning sickness had fled, Lyarra found she could _enjoy_ her rest on the rare times her babe obliged her with stillness. 

“Princess, we’ve _talked_ about this.”

Strangely, it was her husband’s _other_ offspring that were determined to prevent her from properly enjoying this more often than not.

“Lady Nym, with all due respect. _Go away_ ” Lyarra huffed, but won absolutely no peace from the attempt.

“No.” 

Lyarra firmly kept her eyes closed and laid her head back down on the warm grass. She hadn’t opened her eyes and she was determined not to. She’d carved out _one hour_ in her entirely too hectic schedule. It had taken no small work to do it on this day and coordination with no fewer than four of the ladies in her household. She didn’t intend to give it up just because she was supposed to be in a _bed_ in the _shade_ and she’d found that a warm patch of sun was far more conducive to getting her babe to rest with her. Her son - _and it was a boy, she knew it was so_ \- liked a nap in the sun just as much as his mother. 

Nymeria Sand wasn’t so easily dissuaded. She stubbornly poked Lyarar’s hip with the toes of her sandals again. Lyarra was also fairly sure she heard the older woman stifling a laugh. It was hardly surprising.

Lyarra had arrived not as a young wife to a young husband. Instead she’d come to Dorne amidst fanfare. She was the _Gods’ Chosen_ bride and _soulmate_ of a prince. Yes, he was a second son and fourth in line to the Sunchair. He’d have been horrified at the idea that he should inherit it for reasons even beyond the death of his kin, but the Red Viper was famed in Dorne for many reasons. Some were leaning more towards infamy. Some were just plain bawdy. Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell was a deeply admired man, however, and seemed so very unlikely to be given a soulmate for many reasons.

All of these things had conspired to make Lyarra the very center of attention when she arrived in Dorne. Her pregnancy had added to it, as in Dorne the legends surrounding soulmates dictated that the Gods brought soulmates together to provide children who would rise to greatness. When you also considered that, after so many years, whispers had it that _Names_ had been recovered and justice could now be done for Princess Elia and her babes? Then there was the now well-known reality that Princess Rhaenys’ killer had already been killed as violently as he’d murdered the little girl so long ago…

Lyarra Snow had spent her life as a bastard. Beautiful, yes, she had grown so in time. This had instilled caution in her rather than pride and she’d been used to taking refuge in being unnoticed and unimportant. Despite the long journey to get to Dorne, despite all of the great effort placed in preparing her, Lyarra found it all overwhelming. Acquiring seven stepdaughters had not made it easier. 

The eldest of the Sand Snakes were actually inordinately tolerant of her, Lyarra found. Yes, the first fortnight had been difficult with the older girls. They were by turns quiet and probing. They loved their father more than the desert sands thirsted for rain, and so Lyarra was not surprised by the inquisition. She was a bit surprised to find that the older Sand Snakes seemed ready to greet her with a fairly open mind.

 _“You’re too young.”_ Obara had told her one day, with the eldest of the girl’s characteristic bluntness. _“I’d feel like I was picking on one of my little sisters or something. Nym’s going to be open-minded because she feels guilty for Tyene. She was supposed to be watching her so she didn’t overwork herself, as if anyone could stop her, and she feels it’s her fault she got sick. Losing her and Ari have made Nym lonely. Sometimes that makes people meaner. Sometimes it makes them kinder. It’s the way of things.”_

Lady Nymeria Sand was the later. She was lonely and Lyarra sympathized with that. In the end, Nymeria was the only of the sisters who officially joined Lyarra’s household, for which she was grateful. They were difficult to take as a unit, and it made Lyarra wonder if she and her siblings in Winterfell had been that overwhelming to the adults who managed them. It was also a benefit because it was Nymeria whose closeness to Arianne Martell meant she knew the most about the castle of Sunspear itself and a great deal of its running. Nymeria also had a very sharp political mind and knew a great deal about Dorne, its banners, and their various histories. Unfortunately this also meant that, while all of the Sand Snakes had been told by their father to keep a sharp eye on his young soulmate, Nymeria was the closest at hand to “manage” Lyarra, and was one of the more stubborn of the girls. 

Given that _all_ of Oberyn’s daughters were stubborn this said quite a bit.

“I’m not going away, Lyarra.” _Poke._

“Truly.” _Poke._

“You might as well open your eyes and let me help you up.” _Poke._

Lyarra sighed but knew it was true. Cracking her eyes open she grumbled, managed a very slow turn so her hips and feet were positioned properly for the arduous task of getting the simply massive bulk of her belly to center itself so she could stand again, and then held her hands out. Nym’s dark eyes glittered down at her familiarly as she took Lyarra’s hands and hauled her back to her feet with a curse. How was it that his children being _annoying_ made her miss him more?

Lyarra reached out idly with her mind, poking gently at the part of herself where she and her soulmate were bound. It had grown easier with time. She often felt Oberyn do the same, especially now that he wasn’t with her himself. This time all she got back was a sense of sharp-edged, focused, excitement that made her think that he was sparring.

“Thank the Gods I prefer women. I _never_ want to find myself in the state you are in, Princess.”

 _“Lyarra_ , Nym _.”_ The younger woman stressed, as both tended only to use titles formally in court or to vex each other. It was actually something that Lyarra found House Stark and House Martell had in common. “Did you come to bother me just because everyone is _far_ too worried about sunstroke or because you really need me for something?”

“Pregnant ladies should stay out of the sun.” Nym replied immediately, but moved onward. “We do need you, however. A strange man came in claiming to know you. He has a silver cloak brooch in the wolf’s head shape just as you use so we had the guards bring him in, but caution is never wasted.”

Lyarra felt a ghost of amusement that wasn’t her own at the last statement. The first time she’d heard Nym say, _“Caution is never wasted.”,_ Oberyn had stared at his daughter in shock. Apparently Nymeria was one of the girls who most took after him in passion and… abrupt decision making, as some of the other Martells called his recklessness when they were feeling wry. Since the Greyplague had rushed through Westeros and Essos, however, it had worked a change in everyone. In Nymeria and the other Sand Snakes it was the sudden realization of how _much_ Doran Martell did.

For most of their lives the Sand Snakes had seen their aging uncle as boring, staid, useless, and even cowardly. They never spoke such around their father. It would have been rude, as Doran Martell _was_ Oberyn’s brother. However, to young girls who idolized their father it had often seemed that Oberyn, who was the one who rode out more often to see the banners, and the only one to in later years, did more work and was more _deserving_ of the Princedom than Doran. Especially as the girls almost all had taken Arianne Martell’s side in the argument over her birthright.

Lyarra wasn’t touching past arguments within her new family with a ten foot pole. What she could see was how they’d changed in time. Doran Martell’s decisive action had saved countless lives in acquiring and spreading the Goatsbane Inoculation. However, it had also forced him to draw in and utilize _all_ of his family members, and for the first time his nieces learned the sheer, mind boggling, amount of work a _good_ prince did all without leaving a chair and a desk with a pen in reach. That Doran did this while in constant pain from crippling gout only made it more amazing.

Then there was the Sand Snakes themselves. While Oberyn had taught Lyarra a great deal about handling money and attributed his own skills to learning to save and invest so that he could assure a good future after his death for his many natural children he had not always possessed that knowledge nor the funds to use it. You must have starting capital to invest and the first years can be lean. It was during that time that Prince Doran had simply and silently added his nieces to _his_ household budget, paying for their clothing, shelter, lessons, and upkeep to allow his brother to plan and work for their futures. Somehow, the Prince had simply… never stopped. Even now they remained as technical members of his household, and likely would as long as Prince Doran lived and they remained unwed.

The Sand Snakes had not known. Finding out that you’d spent years quietly mocking a man who put clothes on your back and food in your belly, but surely _heard every word_ thanks to his rank, nature, and intelligence? It had apparently been a seminal event for all of the older girls who’d participated in the disrespectful behavior. 

“A wolf’s head brooch?” Lyarra frowned. “What does he look like and how genuine was the brooch?”

There had been a number of merchants and various smallfolk with a history of begging who’d come to her with tales since she’d arrived in Dorne. Seeing petitioners and distributing alms was all part of her role now. Lyarra didn’t mind it, but she had discovered she must be cautious. Quite ignoring the fact that occasionally madmen appeared and did mad things, Amory Lorch’s death had proven that House Martell’s enemies were persistent and had deep pockets.

One of the common deciets, however, wasn’t at all murderous. So far nine men had shown themselves amongst her petitioners claiming to be Northmen. Most claimed to be sailors who had lost their berth on their ship and were stranded in Plankytown working at the docks. They just wanted to _go home_ and begged for her to assist them in returning to the North… They were not convincing. Atrocious Northern accents, foreign looks, and wolf symbology abounded despite the fact that - unless they worked in Winterfell itself - they would not have been given such as part of their clothing. 

“As far as we can tell his brooch is identical to yours. It even has the same maker’s mark.” Nymeria replied. “That’s why I left him with Obara as well as the two initial guards. This one was well-researched and the man speaks like a Lord.”

“Your sister has admirable conversational skills.” 

“In certain situations.” Nym grinned back at Lyarra’s deadpan and lead the way, slowing her long-legged, lanky stride to meet Lyarra’s current stately waddle.

“You still haven’t told me what he looks like.”

“Tall, hair a kind of buff brown with darker roots and hints of blonde bleached by the sun. I took him for a true blonde at first, then I got a better look at him. High cheekbones, sharp features, bluish eyes. He’s got a fine tan, but you’d expect that. He said he’s been guarding caravans to make a living. Strangely enough, he had an older woman with him.”

“Did he marry a widow to support himself and then bleed her dry?” Lyarra asked even as she felt a pang. The description sounded no little bit like her foster-brother, but Theon Greyjoy was dead and from Robb’s last letter the best she could hope to get was a keepsake or two her brother was sending her. She wished that Robb had been clearer, though she attributed his confusing and poorly written letter to grief at losing a man who was as much brother as friend.

“No, he says she’s his mother.” The Sand Snake’s lips turned up. “Perhaps if his pleas for gold fail he intends to sell her.”

Lyarra shook her head at the jape, but had to admit it was accurate. Some of the petitioners were something else. Many were just needy people, though, which is why Lyarra had insisted on continuing to hear such until she went into confinement at the Water Gardens.

Lyarra’s favorite napping spot was in one of the old Sandship’s courtyards. The newer parts of the palace, which featured the tall Rhoynish towers and beautiful color and tilework they favored were certainly lovelier than the old Martell Sandship, but Lyarra’s Stark blood liked the solidity of the old, drummond-shaped castle that predated Queen Nymeria’s arrival. Besides, the towers were beautiful, but straightforward and small. The Sunship appeared small at a distance, but that was quickly revealed to be deceptive. It was a large and very labyrinthine castle whose bottom layers were often carved into the butte that Sunspear and its Shadow City were built upon. With less traffic as well, the Sunship and its often ignored courtyards was the perfect place for a nap or to quietly read a book.

For either greater security or to save her pregnant stepmother a long walk Obara and Nymeria had taken the petitioner further into the Sunship than the usual place in the gatehouse. Though, as it wasn’t a day for petitioners, it was a little unusual they’d listened to him at all. It was a small room just off of a large courtyard favored for sparring by the guard. Though activities planned and events rushed ahead in such a way that most of the guard was busy, a few lingered in the courtyard cleaning and repairing gear and Lyarra nodded to them in greeting as she walked over to the closed doorway with Nym. 

The room was small and windowless. Only two oil lamps burned to give it light. Lyarra blinked, momentarily blinded by the difference between the brilliant sunlight outside and the dim interior. Before her eyes could focus, the petitioner spoke.

“Mermaid tits, you’re _fat_ \- ow!”

“Theon!?” Lyarra gasped and rushed forward.

Several things happened at once at that point. Obara brought her fist down hard upon the back of the man’s neck for his insolence, prompting him to yelp. Nymeria reached out and grabbed Lyarra’s arm to prevent her from reaching the man, unknown to the Sand Snakes, who their young, pregnant stepmother was attempting to run towards. A guard poked his head in to ask if all was well, and _finally_ , Lyarra made herself heard.

“Enough!” Lyarra called out. “Obara, let go of him! Nymeria, let go of _me_ , I _know_ him. Skylar, go attend your duties and shut the door!”

The guard, Skylar, was the first to respond, snapping off a salute and scrambling out and shutting the door. Nymeria and Obara weren’t so easily swayed. Obara had exchanged the punishing grip on Theon’s left ear and right arm for grasping both of his wrists behind his back. Nymeria let go of Lyarra’s arm, but moved between her stepmother and the unknown man. Lyarra put both hands on her hips and tried to look intimidating.

“Theon Greyjoy is dead.” Obara spoke first in a tone that was more curious than anything else and Nymeria raised an eyebrow.

“He is not, don’t you think I know the face of a man I was raised with for seven years?”

Theon spoke quickly, his harsh, wry tone overlapping her own.

“King Robert Baratheon isn’t known for restraining his temper, so everyone decided I was safer dead. Surely _everyone_ in Dorne is surprised to hear _that_ from a hostage whose head was his father’s parole against the King.”

The sarcasm was spot on and Lyarra had tears in her eyes as she stepped past Nymeria and threw her arms around the lanky young man. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was surprised that he’d offered no insult to Obara’s looks or femininity for grabbing him, and that he hadn’t fought back. It was too soon and she was too startled to think it through deeply as she seized him in a rough embrace. One that she noted he returned cautiously and with a certain slightly disturbed wonder in his tone as he spoke again.

“You’re _pregnant_ . I cannot believe it. I mean, I should believe it, the man sort of seems to call bastards out of the wind and all, but this is _weird_. Did the baby just kick me?”

Lyarra looked up into his eyes, snorted, and hugged him again for good measure. Then the reality of the situation hit her.

“Theon, Robb _lied?_ To the King? To _Father?”_

“I like Robb Stark better already.” Obara drawled and Nymeria laughed before stepping forward and giving him a long, slow, speculative look.

“So _this_ is Theon Greyjoy. I’ve heard something of you from Dorne’s newest Princess.”

Theon leered back, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes, which were cautious. Lyarra made a note to ask about that and a thousand other things. Other realities intruded upon her mind, however, and among them were the endless list of duties and loyalties she’d acquired with her new soulmate, rank, and position.

“Nymeria, Theon’s presence must be kept entirely private. Except-.”

“The Prince must know immediately.” Nymeria nodded. “Obara?”

“I have duties just as you do.” The older sister groused, but nodded. “I’ll go clear the way a bit. Go in the back way under the first kitchens and through the cellars.”

“We need to get my mother.” Theon spoke up again. “And I want my weapons back.”

“After Prince Doran decides what we’re doing with you.” 

Lyarra laid a reassuring hand on his arm when his expression grew tense and irritable.

“You’re safe here, Theon, you’ve done no wrong. We heard around two moons ago that the raiding wasn’t your father’s doing. The King was very sorry he’d called for your head, according to Father.”

“More or less because I’d already _‘died heroically for Ned Stark’s son’_?” The bitterness in his voice was sharp and Lyarra felt her own lips twist. 

“The man is a horrible king with no sense of responsibility.” Lyarra agreed, angered at the reminder of so many other things Robert Baratheon was ultimately responsible for, then looked up at him. “I cannot believe Robb… no, I can. Pack comes first.”

Theon’s expression softened and he nodded. 

“He named me a brother before he left… and the others helped too. Even Forrester and Karstark. I hadn’t expected either to call me friend, let alone....”

Lyarra smiled at him and offered him another hug, which he gingerly accepted. She didn’t know what to say to him at that. She did know the first question she needed to ask, however.

“What is this about having your _mother_ with you? We heard the Iron Islands were...”

“A fucking nightmare.” Obara offered up with a certain satisfaction. “The Thralls killed all the Ironborn they could get their hands on, which wasn’t much after the Plague was through.”

“And the salt wives rose up against the rapists and kidnappers who presumed themselves husbands.” Nymeria added, her dark eyes glittering.

Theon winced and glared at the two older women, then he turned back to Lyarra, his eyes begging for understanding.

“I know what they were; I saw what the raiders fleeing the isles did on the Northern coast. They’re all dead now, no point in… I had to go back. I - … Anyway, I went back and found my Uncle Victarian. He died, but I found out that my mother was hostage of some ex-thrall lord who’d been part of leading the uprising after the Greyplague. I got her back.”

“How is she?” Lyarra could only imagine what those who’d been thralls would treat their prisoners like, but even as part of her thought it justified she found herself mostly worried for Theon’s sake. She was herself motherless and he’d been so long away from his own…

“Better.” Theon said, his voice tinged with relief before he added, looking up towards where Obara had walked out to call some orders into the courtyard before lowering his voice. “My mother _isn’t_ mad, but she lost her husband and _all_ of her children died but me. She’s - she’s _fragile_ , but she’s getting better. Promise me they’ll be kind to her here.”

“I promise.” Lyarra gripped his hands. “If House Martell can show _Gwyn_ kindness with her blood, do you think they’ll be cruel to your mother?”

Theon didn’t have time to respond before a tall, willowy woman with honey colored hair shot through with streaks where her gray hair had been bleached platinum by Dorne’s sun was led into the room. Lady Alannys Harlaw walked into the room wearing a simple cotton gown of faded blue and a girdle made of finger-woven twine in bright colors, but she carried herself with all of the fey grace of a queen. She smiled warmly at her son and Lyarra as well, even looking towards Obara’s harsh, watchful face with a certain warmth.

“My daughter, Asha, loved to fight too. She was every bit as fierce as the boys. I was very proud of her.” Lady Alannys addressed the rather surprised looking Sand Snake before turning to Lyarra and beaming. “And look at you! My son had told me so much about you. Did you really punch him in the nose just days after he arrived at Winterfell?”

“He deserved it.” Lyarra blurted out in the same beligerant tone she’d once used with Maester Luwin about the incident and was surprised by the woman’s silvery laugh.

“Oh, he gets _that_ from his father.” The older woman agreed a flicker of sadness in her eyes, then her expression grew distant. “He learns, though, and he gets that from _my_ side of the family. My brother was the most learned man in the Isles. Always reading, my brother. Books and books and more... Oh, look at you, though. You won’t be long now, will you? About a moon, I should think. Yes, I was the same, with my sons. Asha was different, always different… I, Theon?”

Lyarra flushed but nodded, having grown almost used to the way older woman responded to her pregnancy. She was surprised at the total lack of formality but Theon only gave her a helpless expression as he stepped forward and took his mother’s hands. It was partly composed of what was clearly a son’s love, but also a certain confused caution that Lyarra understood. He’d called her _fragile_ , after all. That could have many meanings, but in any you handled them with care.

“I’m right here, Mother.”

“Your brothers are dead. Your father and sister as well.” 

The lady’s voice was soft now, and her expression lost in a way that tore at Lyarra’s heart and left her with no idea what to do or say.

“Lady Alannys, would you and Lord Theon come with the Princess and I?” Obara had been raised at court and though she often ignored them, she had pretty enough manners when she chose. Her normally hard, dark eyes were unusually kind as they looked from Theon, to his mother, and back. “I do not know who the Prince shall receive first or in what time, but we may as well move in that direction.”

“Certainly.” Lyarra agreed. “And we will see to a quiet room in a comfortable part of the Sandship as well. Something that won’t be too disturbed by the coming festivities.”

“Thank you,” Theon agreed while his mother smiled and asked Lyarra a polite question about the wedding festivities.

* * *

“Two more days.”

“It has taken nearly a moon to accomplish this trip. For the sake of your continued health do not give me _‘two more days’_ , Daemon Sand.” 

The younger man ducked his blond head and smiled out over the sand as the camp set up in the closing hours of dusk. Around them the desert began to sigh as the sands gave up their heat to the sky and the cool desert night descended. Tents were put up, musical instruments began to creep out of their place among the baggage or hanging on saddle horns. Cooking and sentry fires were lit. 

None of it could stifle Oberyn’s ill mood. Not that he expected it to. Removed from the threats against his life and Lyarra’s and without the hectic pace of his life as his brother’s right hand and father of seven girls, Oberyn couldn’t help but _chafe_ at the changes in his life. 

He did not resent his new wife and soulmate. If anything he was relieved by the Gods’ choice. The honest, sweet, brave young woman he’d been bound to was easy to love, and the child that grew within her only eased her deeper into his heart daily. He even found it rather adorable that she hadn’t given up her insistence that this latest babe would be a boy, despite all of the evidence to the contrary.

That didn’t change the fact that even a year into wearing the sun-and-wolf mark upon his wrist Oberyn Martell didn’t take kindly being told what to do. Being told what to do with his _dick_ didn’t make it more appealing. He’d had a few less than pleasant discussions with the Gods over his month away from Lyarra, relief, sensuality, and the stifling reality that the Gods had decided was likely a delightful joke at his expense.

“There goes Lady Tayla.” Daemon commented.

“Like clockwork.” Oberyn agreed, his tone sharper than it need be. He softened it and sighed as he watched the familiar scene. “If nothing else, they are well-matched in punctuality.” 

His nephew and future prince had made them _all_ proud in putting good rulership over foolish revenge when he’d left Daenerys Targaryen to live happily with her Khal. Ser Quentyn Martell, Heir to the Sunchair, future Ruling Prince of Dorne would be a far better ruler than Oberyn ever would have, had Dorne ever had the grand misfortune of him inheriting anything beyond the name and the duties he already possessed. He was a fine warrior, a goodly knight, and an intelligent, thoughtful, just man with a prudence Oberyn hoped to never possesses no matter how long he lived. Despite nearly seventeen years of life, however, Quentyn ignored all Dornish stereotypes and somehow had managed to retain his virginity into his seven-and-tenth year.

With his marriage arranged to Lady Tayla Wyl, everyone had assumed that would change quickly. The lady in question had grown on Oberyn once he’d met her. The family was one of the most powerful in the Marches and they could summon many knights and warriors to their yellow banner and its black adder. It was an important and reasonable dynastic match and as such Oberyn had truly, _truly_ tried to get his nephew to indulge in a little exploration.

The Red Viper had even met with a most unexpected and uneasy ally in the attempt. Despite his and Ser Cletus Yronwood’s exhortations, however, they had arrived at Wyl with a virgin prince. A situation that Oberyn had hoped to avoid, but there had been nothing for it. He’d brought his nephew to meet his intended like a goat to slaughter and now he could only look back on that observation with a certain sardonic amusement.

Slender as a willow reed with skin the color of aged ivory and hair a soft chestnut brown, Lady Tayla Wyl was a classic Stony Dornish beauty. Just that hint of warmth in her pale skin gave it depth and large, almond-shaped brown eyes admired the world behind artfully applied rims of kohl. She was a good three inches taller than his nephew’s middling height and dressed in gauzy silks carefully draped to emphasize the grace of her figure to a point you could forget it was also just a bit spare in places. It _was_ actually very easy to forget, along with the fact that her features were not quite harmonious and her beauty was more that of cultivation than nature.

“Your nephew is a _lucky_ man.” Daemon reflected, chuckling.

“You said so last night.”

“And the night before, and I am likely to continue to make that observation when he is My Prince and not merely _a_ Prince as you are, Prince Oberyn.” The bastard knight replied cheekily. 

Oberyn hummed out his agreement and nodded as he watched the nightly progess of the young couple. Arranged marriages could be awkward. Godly as his was, it had had more than its fair share of moments. Not the least since they’d arrived in Dorne.

Oberyn still winced to think of how poorly his youngest three had received his wife. Elia was hurt at her mother’s loss. They all were. Ellaria’s absence was a wound on his soul that would never heal, and Oberyn had simply learned to live _around_ the scars. For Elia, well, she was but a little younger than her new stepmother and had opted to remain distant but kind. She had her own life, would one day likely inherit Hellholt from her grandfather, Lord Harmen Uller, and despite her passionate temperment had enough of her mother’s kindness to recognize that the binding of two souls was not anyone mortal’s doing.

Obella, Dorea, and Loreza were all _young_. Loreza’s memories of her mother were precious and grew more difficult to grasp by they day and to Dorea it seemed all too real that this too-young, foreign woman was usupring her mother’s place. Obella was merely still grappling with her grief and, like her father, turned to anger in her pain. The year of progress that had been made with the plague had crumbled with his absence in retrieving Lyarra and then led to months of unease as they tried to work forward towards some new peace and familial happiness.

Oberyn thanked Mother, Crone, and Maiden _all_ for their new Septa and that they’d found her before his trip North. The lady was small and frail of build, less than a decade younger than himself but with an air of strangely gentle grief that was equaled only by her kindness and an iron will he hadn’t expected at _all_ when meeting her. Especially not out of one of First Septon’s charity cases. 

Not that Oberyn didn’t admire the fact that the highest religious authority in Dorne actually _was_ a pious and good man. Given how things stood elsewhere in the Faith he appreciated it greatly. He was just used to seeing in the women rescued from slavery or abuse who landed in the Septon’s care and then joined the Faith a skittishness. Most decided to stay in the safety of the feminine sphere at Mother Houses. This one in particular had spent no small amount of time in the Celestial House in the Red Mountains above Starfall. Being one of the remotest of Dorne, he’d once asked the girl why she’d chosen to come to Sunspear.

 _“I could hardly stay hidden away when so many people were suffering and dying of the Plague.”_ Septa Mercy had responded, for such was the name she’d chosen. _“It is often the least likely people who save you or hurt you, Prince Oberyn.”_

“You’re awfully quiet, Your Grace.” Daemon observed in the lull that had overtaken them with Oberyn’s thoughts. “You cannot possibly be _that_ aggrieved that the Prince and his future bride’s evening walks have _lengthened_ the way that they have as we grow nearer to Sunspear. Surely it’s a good thing they’ve gotten along so well.”

“I am considering the value of Mercy.” 

“Not usually your favorite grace, my Prince.”

“I mean the septa, not the philosophical application of unwarranted kindness. Cease with the ranks, Daemon, I taught you how to properly lead a horse and plow an arse! I think we’re safely close enough for _names_ , do you not?” Oberyn rolled his eyes, but then quirked a smile.

Quentyn and his lady did indeed take walks every night. Lady Tayla wasn’t a woman of immense experience. Oberyn could spot such ladies easily enough. However, she’d seen her first score of years and she _wasn’t_ the blushing virgin Quentyn was. He was pleased that Quentyn didn’t hold that against his bride, and he found it frankly amusing watching as the older woman carefully seduced his nephew. He found it outright _hilarious_ as Quentyn accidentally seduced her in turn with his mind.

“It _is_ quaint that she began those walks to cement her place with her body, and instead found herself caught up in endless discussion of finance, law, and rulership.” Oberyn finally admitted. “I do not think she expected that.”

“Prince Quentyn can come across as taciturn, if you do not know him, and severe, but I think the lady’s just aghast at the idea that a man so young is going to take her on so _fully_ as a wife.” 

“Dornish or not, too many young men have egos too fragile to appreciate the value of a true mate.” Oberyn agreed, his heart twisting in his chest with longing for Ellaria even as he felt, like cool water over a raw wound, a smile tug at his lips and reached down to rub at his wrist. “My wife is most exasperated by the wedding preparations, I believe.”

“I would be too if I were left that heavy with child, at her age, to be the only Princess of House Martell present to manage the first Royal Wedding Sunspear has seen in… how many years?”

“Since Mellario, but we don’t talk about that.” Oberyn replied snidely.

Intellectually he knew it was not _all_ her fault. His brother was kind, good, and a great ruler. He could also be emotionally distant and he’d brought his bride from far away to a land that wasn’t her own and hadn’t received her kindly. In his heart, however, he couldn’t help resenting her for the effect she had on Doran.

Quentyn and Lady Tayla began their slow walk, hand-in-hand, through the camps. In the dark her paler face was more easily seen and it was animated with a smile and as her hands moved quickly, emphasizing her words. The young prince could be seen nodding along or shaking his head, and about halfway through the walk he led her back to his tent. Oberyn knew it was likely as not to retrieve some book or the other to prove a point, but he liked to hope that instead the two had fallen into a passionate embrace and were making wild, hedonistic love upon the camp bed.

 _Someone_ should be enjoying themselves.

“I am in an ill-mood tonight, and naught’s going to cure it, Daemon. You might as well sleep before your watch.” Oberyn waved a hand. “I’m going-.”

 _“What’s that!?!”_

The alarmed yell from a sentry of House Wyl hit Oberyn exactly the same time as realization. Later he could connect this with his restlessness. He would one day realize how much his need to _move_ had affected his own young wife and led her to, in the night hours and in sleep, reach out to her most ready outlet. At that moment Oberyn just saw a flash of white against the Red Sand, heard the sentry’s fear, and made a logical deduction.

“Hold!” Oberyn bellowed and took out at a run towards that man, pleased to see one of his own guards holding the man’s spear and glaring at him even as he jogged over with a laugh and let out a high, loud, whistle. “Have no fear. It seems my Princess has decided to send out a scout to see why her soulmate tarries so! Ghost, come here!”

Closer to two years old now but with a way to go before the full size she would one-day own the lanky direwolf was now the height of a mountain pony, if the quite the weight. She had long ago surpassed even the heavy mastiffs bread in the North or the huge shaggy sheep dogs from the Mountains of Norvos Oberyn had seen in his travels. They’d camped on a fairly flat area of sand where a ride of stone and the rocky ground beneath had temporarily been swept even by the wind. It wouldn’t last, but it meant that as the direwolf loped down into the bowl of earth the moon left her pale coat blazing like the pinpricks of light dotting the black velvet field of heaven overhead. 

“Gods, what is that?”

“The Princess Lyarra’s direwolf, haven’t you heard?”

“What’s it doing _here_? Isn’t the princess in Sunspear? We’re two days out!”

“Two days with a party of _this_ size isn’t likely a long journey for a beast that covers ground like that.”

“Besides, she was likely out hunting and smelled us.” Oberyn tossed over his shoulder. “All wolves must hunt, musn’t they?”

That brought an abrupt silence to the speculation as Oberyn stood at the edge of camp and waited, holding out a hand. Ghost easily jogged up to his position, slowing to a walk and tossing her head with her mouth open wide. With a showman’s skill her wet white teeth gleamed like sabers and Oberyn took a moment to grin back in mutual appreciation of a good performance. She even paused, sniffing at the air and looking at him with that strange, knowing red gaze for a few moments before moving closer to lean her shoulder against his lip and allow him to pet her.

“I see you’re still shedding.” Oberyn observed with a grimace as he came away covered in a fine coat of white hairs.

On the sail back to Dorne everything on the ship, especially his cabin, had soon been engulfed in a blizzard of white fur. He’d assumed they’d have to clip the hugely layered and fluffy coat of the immense beast when they took it south just for Ghost’s health and survival. Oberyn had found he’d underestimated nature, however, as the Direwolf shook off what seemed to be several times her own mass in fluff. Eventually it had left her with a shorter, sleeker coat more like the sandwolves he was used to, but it still seemed she was going to torment him by shedding this coat continuously as well _despite_ having become firmly nocturnal to escape Dorne’s climate.

“Is that blood on her claws?” Quentyn asked and Oberyn turned to see his nephew, sadly with no appearance of having dressed hastily, behind him. Lady Tayla was standing there as well, her dark eyes wide, and her tall, thin, blade of a brother at her side.

Oberyn couldn’t quite bring himself to like the nervous, irritable, high strung man who would one day be Lord of Wyl. The man of two-and-twenty was strong, a decent enough warrior, and wiry to the point where he made Oberyn’s own lean musculature seem bulky. Sharing his sister’s coloring he was attractive enough, if you didn’t mind his pinched features, but Oberyn mostly avoided his company.

“I don’t believe so.” Oberyn held out a hand and, a moment later, was holding her foot. Taking a look he snorted in amusement. “It appears to be henna.”

“Dorea and Loreza were at it again, then.” 

“Quite, nephew.” Oberyn smirked. “At least this time she doesn’t have any pretty blue spots.”

It had perhaps been the first time he’d seen _progress_ in the relationship between Lyarra and his littlest snakes. They had taken an ink pot to the direwolf, who had relieved him greatly with her tolerance and even fondness for his children, and painted a whole host of large patches and blue spots along her pure white coat. When Lyarra had found her dearest companion so colored Oberyn had expected an explosion. Instead, once it was determined that the ink was harmless, Lyarra had laughed until she cried at the girls’ stuttered explanation that they wanted to make their friend look more like a hound so no-one would think of trying to hunt Ghost.

Lyarra had shared several stories after that of her own childhood pranks and those of her siblings. Oberyn had been most amused by the ingenuity of Lord Robb, the Greyjoy boy, and his wife in covering the Stranger’s statue in the Winterfell sept with an old, tattered black cloak and then pulling it off with strings rigged in the rafters so that it appeared to attack the Septon and left him squealing in alarm. He’d been equally pleased when, two days later, his daughters had recreated the stunt. Oh, he’d punished them, but he’d still been pleased.

Ghost nudged his hand and trotted away a few feet, then came back, her expression as close to eager as a direwolf could manage.

“It appears you are wanted at home, Prince Oberyn!” Ser Morton Wyl offered up his high-pitched laugh. “I hope one day to be equally anticipated by my own wife, when I should find her.”

“Father would have been happier had you found her several years ago.” Lady Tayla saved him from responding by prodding her brother instead, instituting another of their friendly spats about how no woman in Dorne apparently met the man’s exacting tastes.

Oberyn found it more likely that he was annoying enough that the lure of the power and riches and prestige of being Lady of House Wyl wasn’t equal to his company.

“Unfortunately, Ghost, I cannot yet ride home. I have duties to perform and must bring my nephew and his bride back before my Prince in state.” Oberyn spoke seriously to the direwolf, scratching the near-mythical beast’s ears before smiling. “However, that doesn’t mean I am entirely occupied. Daemon, bring my horse forward and get me a hunting spear!”

“Prince Oberyn?”

Lord Credon Wyll was forty and more years older than his children and had moved with far less speed away from his tent, flanked by several of the other important banners who had joined their bloated party’s train on the bridal progress.

“Just because I cannot return home doesn’t mean Ghost must go back empty handed.” Oberyn smiled as he accepted the unpoisoned weapon and watched as Daemon sent a boy off for the horse. “I believe my lady would care for a hunt?”

In a silent growl of agreement Ghost peeled her lips back from her teeth and bobbed in place, leaving Oberyn to feel that the monotony and irritation of his task had been a bit alleviated, at least for one night.

* * *

Prince Doran Martell’s wheeled chair was carved like an ebony throne and set with mother-of-pearl inlay. Its’ wheels of wrought iron and wood had rims wrapped in a thick coating of soft suede to prevent them from marking the marble floors and to allow the prince silent movement. On good days, he spent more time out of the chair and leaning on a heavy, beautiful cane of similar make. Having spent so long away from the Water Gardens first due to his brother’s wedding, then his son’s, good days were hard to come by.

He had given over the prince’s traditional solar high atop the Tower of the Sun to Prince Quentyn. This was symbolically an important move to acknowledge his son as his chosen heir. It also made it clear that the crown prince was to be given more and more authority. Underneath it all, however, Lyarra thought it had to have been a relief to the sick man to spare himself the indignity and pain of being carried up the many stairs to it by Captain Hotah. 

Instead he’d chosen a cool room deeper into the parts of the Sunship that got less traffic. It was by no means as beautiful as the prince’s official solar, but Prince Doran seemed to care little. Carpets had been brought in for the floor, comfortable furnishings, tables, and other needful things of the appropriate make acquired to decorate it, and that was that. Now Lyarra approached at the stately, rolling, gate that had become her only possible means of movement with one of Theon’s hands gripped in her own, feeling like he might vanish away if she let him go. Lady Alannys walked beside Nymeria, seeming at peace in the silence despite her son’s tense posture.

Captain Hotah wasn’t at the door, which meant he was either guarding from inside the Prince’s solar or had been asked to accomplish some sensitive task the Prince did not trust to a more minor guard. Instead the man present opened the door, showing they were expected, and Lyarra found herself led into the cool room with the light from its single window into the abandoned, dusty, courtyard muted by gauzy orange curtains. Inside she blinked at the familiar scene.

The prince was sitting behind a small table scaled to the height of his rolling chair. Two chairs sat on either end, scribes who had obviously been sent away quickly. The desk was clear of all documents, but a neatly cut pile of fresh parchment of the high quality used for official documents was stacked there as well as cheaper reed paper waiting for first drafts and notes. Four ink pots and five reed pens in stands sat waiting attention. A glass pen of the king Prince Doran preferred stood in a gilt and copper stand nearest his own place.

Captain Hotah was indeed inside the room. A huge shadow, tall, incredibly broad, and with his short white hair and white beard dominating a square face with large, calm dark eyes. In his hand was held the man-high shaft of his Norvosi battle axe; its large curved blade glittering in the low light. Lyarra couldn’t be sure, but she thought she caught the tiniest hint of a smile touching his lips as he looked at the curve of her belly. 

Lyarra was _not_ unaware of the betting pool going around about the birth of her child. It was given that everyone had put gold or silver or copper on the fact that she would be birthing a daughter. Most of the variation in the various books surrounding her birth had to do with the length of her labor, the size of the babe, and who it would look like. So far, as far as Lyarra knew, only _one_ person had put money on her birthing the boy she knew she was going to have. Lyarra didn’t know who it was and Captain Hotah didn’t seem like the kind to bet, but Prince Doran refused to participate and as he was the only one who believed her she wouldn’t put it past the man to have put a proxy bet in through the Captain of his Guard. She just didn’t know if the foreign man was the betting sort...

“Prince Doran, forgive my intrusion, but my household has two unexpected guests I feel you must meet.”

Lyarra’s lessons kicked in a moment too late and she realized she shouldn’t have said “must” to the ruling prince, but her goodbrother took no offense. If anything, he seemed to take a far more tolerant role towards her occasional faux pas than the rest of his household. As embarrassing as it was to have a goodbrother closer in age to her _grandfather_ , had Rickard Stark lived, than herself Lyarra had found that it came with advantages. One was the endless patience of the man.

“So I had heard.” Prince Doran reached down and gripped the iron rims attached to the wheels of his chair and rolled himself back away from the desk and around it. “Have a seat, sister, the walk here must have tired you.”

Theon and his mother needed no prompting. Theon fell into a deep bow and his mother a deep curtsey. Lyarra was grateful to sink into a deeply upholstered chair as Obara stepped forward from her own dim corner and into easier view as she moved from standing by _one_ Nymeria in the room to the other.

In one of the innately strange moments that seemed to come with their direwolves, it had become clear since Lyarra had come south with her sister that the animals had retained their aloof nature. However, despite this, they seemed to _understand_ that the Martells had become family. That they too were now somehow part of the _pack_ that was central to every wolf’s life. As such there were two places where you could often find the direwolves when they were not with their people, as they usually were.

One was the nursery. For quite a while it had led to tension, but soon it had become a strange comfort. Loreza and Dorea both adored Ghost and had quickly gotten over their fear as it seemed that Ghost was determined to show them the motherly affection that they had, at first, violently opposed allowing Lyarra to show them. Now that things were more peaceful, it was not quite so, but Ghost remained a frequent figure napping in the nursery’s corners.

Nymeria was less tolerant and didn’t wish to be crawled on or brushed. However, she would often shadow the youngest of the Sand Snakes, who had learned quickly that Nymeria could be petted a little when she wished, but to wait for the huge, growing, direwolf to come to them. She would not, however, ever harm the children and her position as guard was unquestionable in those times she was near them rather than Arya. She might have preferred to be more often around her person, but Nymeria’s presence was strictly limited by Syrio Forel. The man who had been the First Sword of Braavos for longer than many others spoke firmly against allowing the direwolf to become a crutch of any sort when it came to his student’s fighting style or capability. 

The other location they were often found was Prince Doran’s solar. At first even Doran had misliked this. A wolf of any kind being drawn to the sick and weak was not reassuring behavior. Here, however, it seemed to have taken another strange turn. Neither animal doted on the older man as Ghost and, to a lesser extent, Nymeria was willing to do with the children. They did not approach to have their ears stroked. Instead, as if they’d adopted the necessary oaths and honor of those their ladies had given the Prince, they would find a quiet, dark corner and play sentinel instead.

“Lord Theon, you’re looking well for a dead man.”

“Thank you, Prince Doran, I do try.” Theon replied, chin up and now seeming at a temporary loss for what to say.

“Theon isn’t dead.” Lady Alannys commented into the gap, her tone distant. “Others are. Who do you become, when you come from the dead?”

Lyarra stiffened at the words the lady had spoken. Theon’s mother’s tone was gentle, sad, and a little amused. _Fey_ , Lyarra thought, like the woman herself. The words could have been taken as an insult, however, and Lyarra watched Doran closely as his dark eyes measured and evaluated the woman Theon was silently comforting with an arm around her shoulders, a defiant expression on his face as he did so. As Lyara watched Doran seemed to come to some internal decision and his expression softened from its usual inscrutable look to a gentler blankness. 

“Lady Alannys, I am glad to see you have passed well through our borders, and I grieve for your losses. I too buried a daughter twice in stone. May I inquire how you both came to be here?”

“My son saved me.” The lady went on, her eyes focusing more sharply and her tone proud, as if she’d risen suddenly from deep water. “And he didn’t have to draw a sword to do it. Theon was brave and canny and I am proud of him.”

“As I am of my own sons. I would like to hear the tale from Lord Theon as well, however?”

Lyarra cut her eyes towards Theon, who moved forward, accepting a seat on a settee by his mother, his hand automatically coming out and his fingers tangling with hers. What followed was a tale that had Lyarra very ready to hit her foster-brother upside the head for his foolishness even as she longed to drag him into an embrace for his bravery. She was also turn between an innate sense of justice and anger at the Ironborn for their way of life and grief for her friend as the story of his uncle’s death, the destruction of the plague and then the thrall revolts, and how he had saved his mother played out before them. Prince Doran did not stop him as he told the tale, instead he let it all tumble out from Theon’s exhausted lips, bits added here and there by his mother. When he was done, the questions began.

“It seems that a message made its way to Riverrun from Lord Lyll Farmer despite your escape with Lady Alannys.” Doran began. “It is widely presumed that the fisherman who he hired to take you to the Riverlord, my lady, either drowned you and ran without reporting the message or drowned with you when his boat could not take the seas between the Riverlands coast and the Iron Islands.”

“Good.” The words tumbled out of Theon. “It’s got to be safer for us, and for Robb, that way.”

“It does.” Lyarra agreed, hitting upon the one aspect of this that made her nervous. “Surely they would both be better well-hidden here in Dorne, than anywhere else.”

Doran Martell was a good prince. He was a good prince before all else that he was, and that had its risks. This was a man who made difficult decisions and who had put his duties before his marriage to a woman he loved, his daughters’ happiness and inheritance, and so many other things. He’d sent Quentyn away from home to foster as a young boy for duty. The list went on and on and as such, if it was good for Dorne or House Martell to shame her younger brother for his lie to the King or otherwise reveal Theon, Prince Doran _would_.

“I agree.” The Prince allowed and while Lyarra kept her face clear of expression, Theon’s relief all but expanded to fill the room as his other hand slipped up to frame his mother’s long, thin fingers. “The Iron Islands are still in chaos, however, petty lords like Farmer are how all noble houses started and in time attention and trade shall turn towards the Iron Islands and stabilize it into a normal economy and culture within Westeros.”

“Meaning that the Ironmen are dead.” 

Lyarra stiffened at Theon’s tone and watched Captain Hotah and the two Sand Snakes do the same with some worry. Prince Doran, however, smiled almost to himself, his dark eyes unreadable.

“They are.”

“Prince Doran,” Theon looked up and again his tone was strange, sharp, but distant and as conflicted as the mix of anger and discomfort warping his handsome features. “You sent goats everywhere in Westeros _except_ the Iron Islands. You sent them to _King’s Landing_ and the very place where your sister and her children were _murdered_ , but you didn’t sent them to us.”

“That is true.”

Theon stared back and Lyarra went to speak into the silence, desperate to diffuse the tension that was rising, but Doran held up a hand and forestalled her. Instead the silence stretched on until Theon spoke.

“I understand that you wanted the reaving to stop. It should stop. I saw that in the North, but there were women there, and children, and the thralls were just thralls.” Theon finally said, looking up with pained eyes. “There were rapists and murderers and thieves in King’s Landing, in Lannisport, _everywhere_.”

“That is also true.” Doran agreed. 

“It may be, but even in King’s Landing the Usurper sent all the _other_ rapists and murderers to the axeman or the Wall.” Lady Nym butted in, her tone hot. “At least he did if they weren’t backed by Tywin Lannister’s gold.”

Theon opened his mouth, but it was his mother who spoke.

“It was bound to happen anyway.” 

“What? Mothe-.”

Lyarra watched in surprise as Lady Alannys put a finger over her son’s lips and whispered.

“The Drowned God is dead and fat peasants were there dancing in the Reach.”

Theon seemed to struggle with that, flushing and then squared himself, his shoulders slanting protectively towards his mother in a way that made Lyarra’s chest ache. She knew that she’d grown and changed in ways far deeper than a belly fat with child. She wasn’t the girl she’d been who’d skinned her knees with Theon. Somehow, though, seeing the changes in her brother’s irreverent friend was that much _harder_ than seeing the changes in herself.

“Mother’s right.” Theon began, glossing by the less… balanced statement his mother had made and powing ahead. “I never saw a fat man in my life, hardly, at home. Certainly none who wasn’t a lord. And in the North? Everyone wears fur and can afford leather shoes. None of the straw sandals or cracked clogs our smallfolk knew if they weren’t a shipwright or a weaponsmith.” 

“Then there’s history. I _learned_ it well even in the North. If I couldn’t sail I could still know my people’s stories.” Theon went on, his tone bitter. “Oh, we were rich in the past but we were richest when the Iron Price was paid _at a distance_ . Harren the Black, the Kings we had in the Riverlands and Westerlands, they barely set foot in a ship during our truly rich days. And they called the tribute sent to them their ‘iron price’, but it was really just taxes. The more like ourselves we were, the more we clung to the old ways, the poorer we got and the hungrier. Your father could never see that for his pride. His father did and everyone in the islands hated him for it and called him a Greenlander coward, but even as they mocked him they ate their fill and were too stupid to see it. So we all were. I _know_ , Prince Doran but…”

Silence crept by and Prince Doran nodded. 

“So it is.”

His words weren’t exactly an answer. Lyarra was left wondering what he meant and what Theon heard that caused him to nod, then look away, as if under some weight only the older man seemed to understand. Meanwhile, Nymeria the Direwolf, who had remained in her dark corner got up and sat expectantly by door, staring at the handle as if the humans’ concerns were all far beneath her gray coated dignity. Obara looked at her uncle for guidance and got none, so continued to silently stand guard. Lady Alannys sighed and got the final word in.

“Memories are like the poison flesh of some sharks; they belong to something that you cannot eat that can surely eat _you_.”

“Well-spoken, my lady.” Prince Doran agreed gestured towards a table off to the side that held a decanter of wine, a bowl of fruit, and a few other items of food. “I believe there is bread and salt on that table, Nymeria?”

The wolf looked backwards, then huffed and turned back towards the door, breaking the tension as Lady Nym stood up and Obara released the wolf, shutting the door after her.

“Where _is_ Arya?” Theon asked Lyarra, reluctantly looking away from his mother and the Prince and changing the subject awkwardly. “Is she causing as much trouble here as she did everywhere else?”

“Oh, no, her swordmaster keeps her very busy and when he doesn’t _I_ do.” Lyarra laughed softly. “I think Dorne suits her.”

“She certainly suits Dorne!” Obara barked out her own rough laugh as House Martell’s newest, and least public, guests took their bread and salt. “Some parts more than others! Starfall, for instance…”

Which finally broke the tension. Lyarra knew there would be more and far deeper interrogations later for Theon and likely even his mother, fey as she was. For the moment, however, even Prince Doran smiled a bit as Lyarra began the tale of how Arya’s attempts to haze Prince Oberyn’s new squire out of jealousy had backfired spectacularly. Instead, young Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall, was utterly smitten with Lyarra’s favorite sister…

* * *

**Ironoaks, The Vale of Arryn, 298 A.C.**

“Have we done with it, then?” King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, wasn’t precisely using a princely tone in his conversation despite the room being host to important men.

None of them present minded the peevishness as most felt it on some level or another. Lord Redfort was quietly smug, but had held it at bay through great effort. Lord Royce, old Bronze Yohn whom Ned had so long considered a friend, was even more so but did a better job of hiding it. Roose Bolton, in general, merely projected his usual slithering coldness to all around him, but his lord couldn’t fault him for it. Lord Eddard Stark himself was just pleased that Ser Jaime Lannister had kept a civil tongue in his head as he was the senior Kingsguard present thanks to the decision to leave Lord Commander Barristan Selmy in the capital as a stabilizing influence.

Lord Jon Arryn’s death had been a great blow to Westeros itself. Lord Eddard Stark was still ambivalent about the King’s certainty it had been poison, but what could be done? The circumstances were incredibly suspect and Lord Arryn was not prone to fits of any kind, despite his age. According to the maester who had attended him, Lord Arryn had died as the result of just that.

Ned’s foster father had arrived at the Eyrie as planned, just weeks after Ned had sailed North to return home after the disastrous events at King’s Landing that surrounded the Dornish parties arrival there. Lord Arryn had lost his son and his nephew, both of House Arryn’s most direct heirs, to the plague. He had just seen his eightieth nameday and he had no wife. It was imperative that the Vale have a clear succession and the Lord Hand had left the capital to accomplish just that.

Having no more nieces or nephews to draw upon, or great-nieces and nephews due to some of the most profoundly bad luck a Great Family had ever seen, it fell upon Lord Arryn to look further afield. Lord Arryn’s own father, Lord Jasper Arryn, had been the only one of his siblings to survive to adulthood. _His_ father, however, had had three sisters. Lord Arryn had a great share of first-cousins, once removed, and second cousins he must choose from and _all_ wished to tout the dignity of their lines and their right to inherit. Then there was the claim of the Gulltown Arryns, who at least held the name...

It was in the midst of one of these meetings, where tempers flared and passions were high and Lord Arryn had to accept the fact that _his_ descendants and _his_ branch of House Arryn was to end with him, that the Hand of the King had taken fit. There were a dozen different accounts, many varying greatly. However, from those that were most trusted some things were certain.

First, Lord Arryn began to fall short of breath. Then, he attempted to rise and calm the room’s response to his distress, but could only speak briefly and collapsed into his chair as he called for aid. From there he was rushed into a room nearby in the Eyrie, where a Maester bled him to alleviate the imbalance of humors that had rushed to his chest and throat and constricted his breathing. After this, a fit had occurred, leaving his left side paralyzed. Lord Arryn had died soon afterward, unable to speak. 

Robert was convinced it was poison. Lord Stark did not know, but as he sat in the crowded, overheated room in Ironoaks he felt himself slightly more certain of foul play than he had been when he gathered his banners and marched to Robert’s aid in the Vale to put down the short, but bloody, rebellion that followed as chaos broke out and the Lords of the Vale fought each other for the dead man’s title. After all, Lady Anya Waynewood had been the one who’d claimed Harold Hardyng yet lived and produced a blond greenboy of the proper age to play imposter for her nephew.

“I believe we have reached a reasonable and just conclusion, Your Grace.” Ned raised his voice and spoke into the silence that followed when none of the many Vale Lords present in Ironoaks’ great hall chose to do so. Standing, he looked around him. “Do any of the Vale’s Lords seek to counter their King’s will, or deny their willingness to swear allegiance to the next Lord Arryn?”

A round of loud denial followed and some cheering. Ned put it away and the disgust he felt with it. The Vale was known for its honor. He still deeply respected many of the knights and lords to be found there. Some of his happiest days had been spent as a boy in the Vale. _None_ of that changed his disgust at how quickly it had fallen into power struggles, Southron games, and betrayal after its lord had died.

“Then we’ll have it done.” Robert stood up and his sheer size and the presence of his anger and determination seemed to fill the room. “Ser Creighton Redfort, step forward.”

The knight was Lord Redfort’s second son. At three-and-twenty the man was young, but very definitely a _man_. Tall, broad shouldered, and with the fine, dark brown hair of his house he didn’t look much like an Arryn. Thankfully, he was the only one of Lord Redfort’s children to sport the pale, sky-blue eyes of that house. His father, Lord Redfort’s, mother had been Lord Jaspter’s youngest cousin. 

“Lady Ysilla Royce, step forward.”

Bronze Yohn’s wife was also an Arryn by blood, but had the grace of carrying the name as well. Lady Selena Arryn was the sister of the current Knight of Gulltown, Ser Norton Arryn. An empty title, for the family held land they rented out in Gulltown itself, as well as around the town, but no authority within it. Unfortunately, their attempts to sway the King had fallen afoul of the King’s temper and in Gulltown they would remain. Lady Selena herself was lucky for her dowry had not been nearly as great as her beauty, but in her youth she’d won a love match with a dashing young knight who loved her still.

Calculating, ambitious, and political as Bronze Yohn could be, the man’s honor was unassailable. He honored his wife still, and she’d given him eleven children. After childhood disease and the plague, seven remained. Of them Ysilla was the youngest and only unwed daughter. She also, thankfully, had the distinction of her mother’s looks. Long, sandy blonde hair peeked out from beneath a demure white vale in a pair of simple plaits. Her large eyes were blue and clear, much as her spouse.

“Today, for your Arryn blood and honor your fathers have shown the King and the memory of their departed Liege and Kin, I name you _both_ equally to the titles of House Arryn.” Robert boomed out, his expression firm and resolute behind his heavy black beard. “Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, Lord Paramount of the Vale of Arryn. These titles are to be held equal in blood and passed on to your firstborn son, as is the law of the Gods, Old and New. Kneel.”

Both did, Ser Creighton’s armor gleamed under the lights, but creaked and clanked slightly as he knelt upon the hard stone floor of Ironoaks great hall. No-one had thought to bring a pillow to a meeting held not even a day after a battle and one that had drawn on for nearly another day on its own. Lady Ysilla’s movements were more graceful and the practiced manner in which the maiden of six-and-ten spread her skirt spoke to Lord Royce’s hopes for her future as much as the blue and white of her velvet gown did. She’d not only been brought along, well-guarded, in the baggage train, but his daughter had come _prepared_.

Robert held out his hand and the Kingslayer passed him his sword. The tip descended first upon the future lord’s shoulder, then his lady’s. Afterward the sword was passed back and Robert was passed a broad silver circlet inset with moonstone. A thinner, more delicate circlet followed and both were set upon the brow of the kneeling figures. 

“Rise, Lord Creighton Arryn and Lady Ysilla Arryn of the Vale!”

A cheer went out, perhaps louder for not being equally felt. Either way, underneath his stoic expression, Lord Eddard Stark felt nothing but relief. Hours followed, as hours has proceeded, but these were spent not in arguing and wrangling as lordship of the Vale was determined based on far too many doctored family trees. Instead it was spent as Lord and Knight after Lord and Knight and Lady came forward to kneel before the new Lord Arryn and give their oaths to him and his lady.

A feast followed, though it was less merry than relieved and the noise of it mostly seemed to come from the packed room’s determination to try and repair the wealth and prestige damaged by the short, bloody war. Ned looked over to find the King well-occupied with a serving maiden in his lap and applied himself instead to his food. Bronze Yohn and Lord Redfort, both whom he might have spoken to at more length, were busy politicking for their children. Stabilizing this new branch of an old house would be difficult. Lord Roose Bolton had excused himself from the festivities for a leeching session battle had forced him to miss two days before, and Ned could have lived without a brief but detailed discussion of earlier. He was sure that the Lord of the Dreadfort truly believed in the benefits of leeching. That did not mean everyone felt the same fascination.

The North had other banners present, but most were falling into silence as he found himself doing. Ned couldn’t have been prouder of how Robb had handled matters in the North in his absence in terms of the Ironborn’s raids. He grieved for Theon’s death, but saw it as one more sad stepping stone to manhood for his son and was grateful that it had been an honorable death in battle. While time had proven Robert wrong for calling for Theon’s head, it had been the King’s right, and honor would have compelled Robb to take his friend’s head. Stark was grateful that Robb had been spared such.

Still, Robb was yet a boy and Ned tried _not_ to think with chagrin on how he had gained a daughter. He had absolutely no argument with calling Lord Forrester kin. He’d wanted Robb to take a Northern wife. That had been his intention any time Ned had considered it over the years since his son was born. Eddard Stark had just thought that at least a few years away and had imagined time to weigh the decision between Lady Alys Karstark and a few others. He hadn’t actually been considering Lady Aislinn Forrester, but in retrospect she was a fine match even if her dowry wasn’t as large as it could have been...

Instead, to Ned’s embarrassment, Robb had decided to take after his long-dead uncle. Brandon, Ned thought, was surely laughing at him from some distant place with their ancestors. Because, just as Barbrey Dustin had fallen to Brandon’s charms, Robb had clearly fallen into a moment of passion with Lady Aislinn Forrester. _Thankfully_ , no betrothals stood in the way of the honorable solution and Robb had quickly wed the girl.

It was still embarrassing. He was grateful that, after her first rather outraged letter, his own wife seemed to have calmed down about it wonderfully. Ned was more relieved than he could say to know he wasn’t going to leave a war in the Vale to return to one in his own home. Especially one fought between the current and future Lady of Winterfell. _That_ was a battle so terrifying to think of he wanted no part in it! Men _never_ won in battles between women, Ned thought wryly, only to have his humor shrivel up as he thought of the aftermath he’d seen in several villages and castles in the Vale.

A short war did not mean a clean war. Men honorable in the light of day and on the tourney field towards noblewomen weren’t necessarily the same to farmers’ daughters and helpless smallfolk. Lord Eddard Stark no longer feared war and he could face death without flinching, but by all the Gods he was _sick_ of war.

“Lord Stark!”

Ned’s head jerked around and he saw Robert rising from his place, waving a hand at the others before laying a light slap across the rear of the laughing serving girl he’d pushed from his lap. 

“Aye, Your Grace?”

“Walk with me. I’d have words before I take to my chambers.”

Ned gratefully stood, leaving the revelers behind and gesturing his own guard back a distance even as the young Stormlands knight new to the Kingsguard who shadowed the king at the same distance. Ironoak was a good, sound castle. Its high walls were of gray stone and its doors and beams of the heavy oak that surrounded the castle in thick wood. What might have been a long siege was settled quickly, instead, as the Lady of the castle had chosen poison over any other fate. Though Ned himself did not remain sure, most lords of the Vale had decided she was the culprit behind Lord Arryn’s death after her deception with the Harry Hardyng imposter. He had no idea what had possessed her to believe that was a wise path. _Everyone_ knew that Harold Hardyng had died two years before given how much it had alarmed the Vale. Her debts had been such that the gamble had likely seemed worth it, Ned admitted to himself. Still, he was plagued by the lack of evidence. Any hint that might have existed as to Lord Arryn’s death had been destroyed in the chaos that followed the Lord Paramount’s demise. Part of the Eyrie had actually ended up _burned_ , Lord Arryn’s body with it, that night due to what was either deliberate sabotage or too many lit candles and too much cloth around the body as it lay in state...

“You’ve gone into your head again, Ned.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, battle does that to me sometimes.”

“It always did. You’re fine in the fight, none better, but you _do_ turn moody afterward; either you talk too much or two little. No in between.” The King agreed, walking along beside the shorter man, staring idly at the carved stone pillars that surrounded the small courtyard they’d walked into. It was a sparring yard and racks of wooden weapons were set back beneath the cloister’s eaves. They should be inside, but it appeared that no-one had thought of it. 

“Who are you awarding Ironoaks to?” Ned asked. “The last of the male Waynewoods died in the battle.”

“I’ll think on it. Not much of a battle, though. I wish it had lasted a while longer, at least.” Robert grunted, but his blue eyes shone in the light as he recalled it. “Damn, but that was good, Ned. The sieges I was happy to leave to the others, but the battles? I haven’t felt so alive in years!”

“Aye, you look it.”

Ned meant every word. His friend remained fat; a few moons of battle wasn’t changing that. The hard daily exercise of riding and swinging his great battle hammer and _fighting_ had done Robert Baratheon good, however. He’d lost a stone or more in weight, likely more. The heavy muscle beneath the fat was more visible, and as he exchanged harder ales and heavy wines for the small beer more readily available on campaign Eddard had watched in relief as the King’s eyes cleared and his mind with it. The king who didn’t care to know and who handed his king off to others remained, but he’d fallen away in favor of the warrior who Robert Baratheon truly was.

 _And yet, when the war is over, shall the warrior sleep, wallowing uselessly in ale again?_ A voice, cutting and sardonic, whispered across Lord Stark’s mind and the Quiet Wolf reflected that one did not get rid of a Viper so easily. Prince Oberyn Martell had, with the Gods blessing, made off with Lyarra to the far south. In the place of Ned’s daughter, the niece he could never admit to having lied to protect, he’d gotten a thousand new insecurities where once he’d had faith.

Robert was a bad king. He wasn’t even an able _lord_. Ned couldn’t deny that and thinking of it left him twisted with grief and anger again at his friend’s failures. Guestright, sacred as it was, meant little in Robert’s household when his queen was honorless, his only trueborn son mad, and his control over his household and the city tenuous at best. 

“Ned, by the Father’s Fathomless Ballsack, would you get out of your damned head and talk to me?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” Ned replied levelly, just to irk the taller man as he shook off the sudden tide of dark emotions.

“What’s wrong?”

The genuine concern in his friend’s voice robbed him of the sharp response he was about to make and left him bitter. In fostering all too often you gave up your kin and received little in return. Ned knew this. He _knew_ how lucky he was to have found a brother and another father in the Vale and had spent his life honoring that connection. It was painful to know how that had curdled into something like _this_ , but worse to know that underneath his failures Robert still _cared_. Had the King been entirely evil like the wicked kings in the songs Sansa loved, wouldn’t life have been far easier? Instead Robert remained himself; deeply flawed, deeply loyal to those few he held true to, and yet… unable to truly help anyone. Perhaps least of all himself.

“I wish to be home.” Ned finally sighed. “And my word weighs heavily on me. I gave Lyarra my oath I would speak to her of her mother. I’d meant to do it before, but…”

“I know, my _damned_ Queen.” Robert replied, his expression sharp. “I should have put her aside, even if there _was_ no proof.”

“You cannot afford to.” Ned stated the obvious. “Besides, her father is currently your Hand, is he not?”

“ _Acting_ Hand. I’ll put that pin on another chest than Lord Tywin’s, soon as I figure out the fool to saddle with it.” Robert countered, then blew out a breath, pained. “I don’t blame you, Ned, for giving Jon your word not to take it. I don’t even blame him for asking it of you. I can see now, how badly I’ve done, but can you blame me? I never wanted the damned crown! I wanted the _girl,_ Ned. Your sister. Had Lyanna lived, this would all be different.”

Ned felt the same creeping dread of lies told and promises made for those who had no say in them and swallowed. Guilt closed around his throat like a mailed fist. He never should have started… so many things… and how they ended… But _why_ ? The anger came back. Why couldn’t Robert have worked to live well as he had? He’d loved another as well, but he’d _found_ love with Cat. They’d been ill-suited, she’d been furious he’d shamed her with a bastard, but they’d still found their way to each other. Why could Robert _never_ seem to _work_ for his happiness or to see his duties through? 

“We have only the world we have before us, Robert.” Ned replied, shoving the anger away as useless. “The Ironborn themselves may be a wreck, but the tattered leavings of them remain on the scattered islands along the coast and they’ll keep reaving until they’re dead. I also rule the _North_ and our words are coming true. The Citadel may not have sent out the white ravens yet, but I can feel it in my bones.”

“Yes, yes, I know; _Winter is coming!”_

“It will be a bad one, Robert. We’ve had nearly fifteen years of summer. The Gods will exact payment for that.”

“Winters come and go, Ned, it’s not as bad in the South. We’ll manage well enough.” The King waved one meaty hand, scowling. “If you want to fret about winter with a Baratheon, get Renly in here. It’s a pity that Stannis died. Had he lived through the Greyplague and not taken up with that mad Red Witch he’d have finally had another sour soul with whom to gripe about me!”

“Lord Renly’s done well for himself, and you cannot blame him for his anger at you for interfering with his household, _or_ not inviting him back to the Small Council after you made Lord Tywin acting Hand and the Master of Laws position was open.”

“I’m _not_ apologizing. I’m the King, dammit. Let Renly humble himself before his own damned king and brother, then I’ll forgive him. Besides, he’s spending too much time in the Reach anyway. That’ll breed its own problems back in the Stormlands. _None_ of us is perfect, are we?”

Ned bit his tongue, recognizing how pointless it was to argue. Instead he turned and looked down at where a rain barrel sat. It had been a wet sennight. The battle had been a field of thick mud the day before that had turned the tide for them easily. His own forces were not weighed down by heavy Southron armor and had easily maneuvered around the knights of the Vale that had made their last stand against the King in the valley before Ironoaks. Robert had stood amidst it all, his hammer in hand, massive in his new armor and coated in mud and blood with the antlers of his helm standing proud towards the sky; he’d seemed like a god of war again, though a darker and sadder one.

“I won’t ask you to break your word, Ned, but you could come south for a while.” Robert said after a moment. “Join me in the capital, just while I choose a new Hand. I don’t have anyone yet, but you’ve got to have ideas. Lord Tyrell wants it, but I’ll not give it to a Reachman and even I know he’s useless. Lord Beric Dondarrion is an honest man.”

“So is Bronze Yohn, but he’ll not leave the Vale until he’s sure his daughters’ place is secure.” Ned breathes out. “You’d do best to appoint someone who knows politics as well. Dondarrion is nearly as bad as I am.”

“Well… for the meantime it’ll hold. My goodfather at least has the goldcloaks back in some order, and steady supplies to the smallfolk. Hasn’t been a riot since he took over.” 

“Aye, there’s that.”

“You’re still going to Dorne?” 

“I gave my word to my daughter that when she birthed her first child I’d speak to her of her mother.”

Robert grinned.

“Yes, and who _was_ she, Ned? I’ve spent long enough wondering who could sway you from your honor to side with your cock like a normal man.”

“I’m hardly going to tell _you_ before I tell _her_ , Robert, leave off.”

“Oh, so _now_ it’s my name and not _Your Grace?”_ The King demanded, but his good humor had returned. “Fine. Let me send a guard or two, though. Dorne’s not a place for decent men, Ned, you know that.”

“I’ll be fine.” Ned shook his head, unwilling to talk on this subject for a moment longer. “It’ll be a short trip, then directly home. My son does well in the North.”

“Other than having his own little failure of honor”

Ned glared at that, but was just rewarded by a booming laugh.

“Gods be damned, I’ll _miss this_ .” Robert complained. “Back to the that fucking city. It does nothing but reek of shit and trap me in its walls, but what else can I do? _Joffrey_ cannot be king, dammit. That’s why I wanted you out here, Ned.”

Attention focused again, Ned turned and nodded, waiting for the King to speak. Because it was the King who spoke, little though he wore the crown well. Scowling and turning to look up at the full moon hanging over head, the black-haired monarch grunted.

“Would have been more fitting for House Arryn had it been crescent, but there you have it. The war’s done. I’ll stay a while longer to get things settled, or maybe leave the Kingslayer with the mopping up and getting all the men organized and back where they belonged… but I need to go back to the capital. I need an heir.”

Ned waited and was rewarded as the other man got to the point of why he’d likely called his friend to walk with him in the first place.

“The Old Lion’s agreed. Cersei’s got a year to fall with child, if not, I’m free of the harpy and that cursed, barbed tongue of hers.” The King turned and spat on the cobbles. “If not, Lord Tywin himself will see her put aside in a Mother House somewhere for _good_ and I’ll get a new wife. I hope the Mother’s cursed her womb, frankly, but either way, Joffrey won’t be king. Ser Kevan’s written me and his damned brother and we’re all in agreement. No more mad Kings.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Your Grace, I would hate to have to have the next Rebellion without you.”

The guards, Northern and Stormlands alike, lingering out of earshot at the two doors to the courtyard, one on either side. Neither knew what had been said. Neither had any idea if it was important. However, both smiled as the two great men left the courtyard chuckling to themselves. One left to find his men and make arrangements for the Northern party to return home and his own smaller party to board make for Gulltown and a ship south, and the other left for his bed and a willing woman. Neither man noticed a shutter cracked slightly open in the window directly above where the King and Lord Stark were talking, or the glint of gold visible there in the bright moonlight. 

* * *

**The North, Winterfell, 298 A.C.**

Sansa Stark _knew_ she should likely have volunteered to spend the morning amusing her new goodsister. She liked Aislinn Forrester very well, even if she wasn’t sure at _all_ about how she and her brother had gone about hurrying their marriage up. It wasn’t, well, it wasn’t ladylike or proper or honorable at all! She’d been absolutely _horrified_ to have all of that go on at all. That it had happened when her betrothed and his aunt was visiting was far worse.

Sansa tried not to be too angry at Robb, but thinking of that happening while Lady Barbrey Dustin was there left her deeply vexed. She was sure Lord Roose would not care what she was like as long as she was fertile. She knew she wasn’t as old or experienced or as well-educated as Robb, but she wasn’t entirely a fool. Lord Roose Bolton probably had neve respected a single woman in his life _except_ his soulmate and her sister, and he respected Lady Barbrey mostly because she was kin and in his camp, so to speak. Roose Bolton liked people who furthered his goals and that was essentially where that ended.

That didn’t mean that Sansa didn’t want to make a good impression! If anything, it made it more important to do so as the man wasn’t kind. She was sure that her betrothed was a true knight and Ser Domeric would guard her from anything, even his own father, but that didn’t mean that she wanted to be a burden on his house. _That_ meant making a good impression and proving herself and Sansa had gotten the feeling shortly after meeting her betrothed’s aunt that her brother had just made an impossible task _harder_ somehow.

Sansa hadn’t ever heard the story of how Lady Barbrey had loved their uncle before, and she’d been more than a little annoyed when it became clear that everyone had assumed she _had_ . Yes, she’d heard rumors that Lady Dustin had loved her uncle, but that’s all. _She_ had thought it all very romantic and sad that Lady Dustin had been in love with a man she could never have, a man in love with and betrothed to _Sansa’s_ mother. It had been very much like the songs she liked and so that’s how she’d taken it and that’s how she’d looked at Lady Barbrey; a tragic figure who’d lost her first love to another woman, then a mad king, and then lost her husband to war.

Sansa felt incredibly stupid about that now. Her face burned just to think of it. Had she listened to the septa and her songs less and eavesdropped or spoken with the guards and servants a little more, like Arya and Lyarra did, maybe she wouldn’t have been so embarrassed. Instead, she hadn’t known, and even yelling at Robb about her later had just added to the embarrassment after it was all said and done. After all, once you did something, you couldn’t take it back.

Besides, now she had so much _more_ work to do. She felt like she had been running along a beach trying to catch a ship that was sailing away. Not only was she making herself tired and going the wrong way, but she wasn’t ever going to accomplish her goal! 

_“Well, they’ll never let me forget I look like a Tully. At least that means I can swim.”_

As it was, Sansa dutifully dropped off the little brightly painted and lacquered box of ginger candy that her mother had asked her to take to her new goodsister in the Heir’s suite and then moved on after only a few minutes. Aislinn really just wanted to lay in the dimly lit room until her light breakfast had settled anyway, she really didn’t want company. Besides, Sansa justified, her Mama had _said_ that other than attending Aislinn she had the morning free. It wasn’t like she was really disobeying.

With that in mind Sansa picked up her skirts and hurried away down the back kitchen stairs and towards the Guest House. Her mother was very busy and Robb had ridden out with Domeric and others to the west coast again. The raiding was very limited now, but given that even the thralls upon the Iron Isles would get very desperate and hungry with few resources during winter it was thought best to keep strengthening the borders. Especially given the state of the Crown.

Sansa shivered, for once glad she hadn’t gone South to see a grand tourney and meet a prince. Lyarra’s tales of chaos and disorder in King’s Landing had been frightening. The Prince of Tongues (though Sansa knew better than to say that aloud, unlike Robb and the other young heirs who _kept repeating it_ ) was horrifying. Sansa was ashamed to have ever daydreamed that Prince Joffrey would want to wed her. She wanted to wed a _knight_ and her father had found her everything she dreamed of. All she had to do now was _earn it_.

“Lady Barbrey?” Sansa scratched cautiously upon the door to the lady’s rooms in the Guest house and nearly jumped when the door swung open without a word.

Lady Barbrey opened it herself, then left it open, turning back towards the room without a word, her black gown swirling about her ankles and the high collar standing stiff against the sharp lines of her chin. Sansa stepped inside just as quietly and shut it. She’d learned that speaking _first_ was a disadvantage.

The room was neat, save for the piles of parchment and two large maps spread across a table. Sansa knew better than to look in that direction now. Before she’d glanced over and asked questions, but had quickly met a sharp inquiry about what matter of business Sansa had with the lady’s personal documents. Sansa hadn’t meant anything of the sort, but even if she wasn’t the fastest of learners she _did_ learn. The sound of Lady Barbrey’s laughter, harsh, mocking, and filled with surprise and malicious pleasure at Sansa’s words to her had made a lasting impression. 

_“You think I’m some_ victim _of a tragic unrequited love, little girl?”_ The older woman’s handsome face, crowned as it was by deep brown and gray hair and the strong bones of a lady of northern blood had sneered down at her. One day Sansa would likely be nearly as tall as Lady Barbrey, but she hadn’t yet reached that height. Instead she’d had to look up into the woman’s mocking face and listen to every word that had followed. _“I’ll have to tell Domeric how wrong he was. My nephew has indeed married a trout. You’re as southron as they come and just as foolish!”_

Sansa’s helpless stammering and apologizing hadn’t helped. Nothing in her training had prepared her to deal with the anthill she’d kicked over by trying to be kind. Not in anything her mother or the septa had taught her for years, or even in her newer lessons in managing a keep and servants and learning how to be a proper _wife_ as well as a lady. 

“Well, what are you here for today, Little Fish?” Barbrey Dustin asked as the lady returned to her comfortable chair before the fire, taking up a pewter goblet of wine and waiting with one eyebrow raised mockingly.

“Domeric asked you to teach me about raising horses and of ladies in the North, Aunt Barbrey.” Sansa walked over and took a seat without asking across from her, earning a second raised eyebrow. “May I call you Aunt Barbrey, Lady Dustin?”

 _“Sometimes propriety gets you nothing, Sansa.”_ Aislinn’s lone comment and shrug about how she and Robb had purposefully shamed each other so they could wed quickly had been laying heavily on Sansa’s mind since her first, disastrous encounter with Lady Dustin. Since then her betrothed’s aunt had kept her word to her nephew; she’d met with Sansa every other day for two hours and given her lessons on things she needed to know to augment what her mother taught her. It was difficult to bear the lessons, as they were not given kindly, but Sansa had been maintaining them with the quiet, demure dignity that her mother had always told her was central to being a lady.

It hadn’t gotten her _anywhere_.

“You’re not married to my nephew _yet_ , Lady Sansa. Nor, might I add, is it time for our lessons. You were here yesterday.”

“I wanted to know what really happened to you and my uncle.” Sansa replied, keeping her chin up and unflinching. “Since I was wrong, I asked the servants and some of the guards and they all have different stories, but _they_ were there and Old Nan says men like to tell themselves lies about women because the truth doesn’t make them feel bigger. No-one’s been married more of lived longer or known more men than Old Nan, so I decided to ask _you_.”

“And you think I _want_ to tell you, Little Fish?” 

“I didn’t ask you what you wanted, Aunt Barbrey.”

“What did I say about calling me that?”

“You didn’t say, _no_.”

In the slight pause that followed as Lady Barbrey Dustin’s strong brows drew together and she fixed Sansa with her dark gray eyes Sansa was more than grateful to rise from her own chair. As Sansa turned towards the door Lady Dustin was about to speak again, but stopped as Sansa opened the door and, instead of leaving, let Lady into the room. Like all of the Direwolves, Lady too had grown. She wasn’t as big as Grey Wind or Summer and Sansa always got the feeling that Shaggydog was just moons away from overtaking all of them despite being the smallest yet, but Lady was still the size of a small pony. When she tipped her head up she could easily lick Sansa or even a grown man in the face. 

Barbrey Dustin kept to her seat, her eyes narrowed. Sansa carefully kept that deep hint of _satisfaction_ she felt hidden. _Real_ ladies, Sansa was realizing, needed to inspire just a little bit of fear along with love and admiration, but they should _never_ let on that they knew it. Lady Dustin was frightened by the direwolves. Sansa had noticed it more than once since she’d come to visit with Dom and, after days of fearful debate with herself, she had decided to risk doing something she _knew_ her mother would not approve of. She’d seen it in Dom’s eyes, though. Of all the people whose respect she must win in her life to be a good lady, to be _his_ lady, she _had_ to win over Barbrey Dustin. If not she would fail as his wife, as his lady, and in marriage.

Sansa was determined not to fail.

“I see she’s not wearing any ribbons today.”

“I think Lady’s quite grown out of them. She’s not a little puppy anymore, Aunt Barbrey.” Sansa allowed and took a seat, marshalling her fear and determination behind her good manners nervously. “I do want to know the truth, though.”

“And you needed to threaten me with your direwolf for that?”

Sansa wasn’t a good liar, but she’d spent a _lifetime_ learning to control her facial expressions. A real lady was always serene. A real lady was always pleasant of expression and manner. It wasn’t that different, she found, to look one way than another, as long as you were doing it on purpose. 

“That innocent look is _almost_ convincing.” The older woman snorted, settling back a bit in her chair and looking at where Lady had curled up around the legs of Sansa’s own seat, perfectly placid and content. “Maybe you’re not entirely useless. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you want to know what happened between me and Brandon?” Barbrey’s voice was angry, an old, deep sort of anger but for a moment Sansa almost thought she smelled a hint of pain in the air, but who _smells_ grief? She pushed the thought away. “And did you mean something by saying what happened “ _to_ ” us?”

“I want to know because it happened to my kin.” Sansa tried to explain. “And because it happened to Domeric’s kin. We _are_ going to be married and so this is important. What happened to you and your family and if it was honorable is part of _my_ history now, too. Or it will be once Domeric and I are married.”

“I notice he’s not _Ser_ anymore.”

Sansa couldn’t quite control her blush. She’d been so very pleased when he’d asked her to leave their titles behind in private conversation. Not that any of their talks could truly be private. They did have to take a chaperone along, but when it was Robb it was pretty easy to ignore his glaring. 

Barbrey Dustin stared at her for a while longer and Sansa had to fight not to fidget. She didn’t think she’d quite succeeded but eventually the lady looked down at Lady for a long moment and nodded. Then she stood up, moving over to the sideboard that held the pitcher of wine and filling her goblet. She didn’t offer Sansa any refreshment, but she almost never did. Sansa had been very offended at first, now she was almost _curious_ . There was something calculated in Lady Dustin’s rudeness that Sansa felt deserved attention. Everything _meant_ something and Sansa didn’t even know a small part of what that was yet.

“Brandon and I were in love.” The lady’s voice was abrupt and harsh, almost accusatory. “Everyone said he bedded whatever he could catch, and they weren’t entirely wrong, but they didn’t understand. We loved each other. The other women didn’t matter. He just wanted to stick his cock in them. He wanted to _wed_ me.”

Sansa flushed darkly at the crass words, but didn’t look away. In that least few weeks she’d learned that you _didn’t_ look away from Lady Dustin when she was talking to you. That was a weakness and she’d take advantage of that. Instead, Lady rested her head in Sansa’s lap, requiring her to move in the chair and pet her. It was a good distraction and she appreciated it.

“Your grandfather, Lord Rickard, would have let him wed me, too, if it weren’t for the Mad King. Your _Mother_ makes it out as if the North was desperate for the Riverlands’ help, but what for? Winter? Ha! The Riverlands damned well couldn’t afford _not_ to sell us grain and produce. They’d be dirt poor and living in the mud if they couldn’t sell produce to us and the Westerlands and they’ve always sold twice to the Westerlands than what they sell to us. Still do, in fact. We get more from the Vale and Lord Rickard already _had_ an alliance with Lord Arryn.”

“I know, that’s why he sent Father to foster there.” Sansa agreed. 

“You’re not rushing to defend your mother’s position as the greatest bride of her generation?”

Sansa was proud of herself. It was an obvious enough trap, but it would have caught her just days before. She _loved_ her mother and she wanted to defend her. The difference was that there were ways and _ways_ of defending people. If you did it with a lie or you did it with _feelings_ when you were having an argument, though, you ended up looking silly. Because arguments weren’t _always_ about logic, but Lady Barbrey had set a trap here where logic was the snare that would catch Sansa’s unwary tongue in a noose. 

She wasn’t going to be unwary this time. Domeric Bolton was the true knight, the husband she’d _always_ wanted. Sansa was a _Stark_ and no matter what the color of her hair she had thousands of years of the blood of Kings in her veins. She was worthy and she was going to _prove_ it. Just because the Gods hadn’t marked her didn’t mean she wasn’t meant for great things.

“Mother’s marriage likely wouldn’t have been what it was without the war.” Sansa ticked off the points on her fingers, thinking carefully about arguments she’d already had in the silence of her own head before she’d decided to come and see Lady Barbrey. “That isn’t really the point. _Mother_ was told her entire life that she was very special. Grandfather told her that hers would be the greatest marriage of her generation and she believed her father. When the war came and her and Aunt Lysa’s marriages formed the basis of the Alliance that put King Robert in power his predictions came true. After father came home with Lyarra and mother was angry about his having fathered a bastard she clung to her pride because she felt alone in the North and betrayed by her husband. It doesn’t make it true, and it doesn’t make it important. It just makes it what mother believes.” 

“Well.” Lady Barbrey came back to her seat slowly and he delicate nostrils flared like the finely bred horses her family was famous for as she slowly took a seat. “It appears you’ve been thinking. I’m surprised.”

“I’m sorry you think so little of your nephew’s taste, Lady Barbrey.” Sansa couldn’t resist the dig, then breezed on past it. “What makes you think Uncle Brandon would marry you?”

“He gave me his word.”

Sansa paused and, after a moment, felt an unwilling pang in her chest. That hint of grief from before she thought was her imagination was back, but now it wasn’t a hint. Underneath the anger and everything else, the pain was rasp in Barbrey’s tone. Like sandpaper over glass it scraped over every one of Sansa’s nerves and despite her days of preparation to go in and be just as unfeeling as the other woman was jaded so she could actually _impress_ her, Sansa cracked.

“I’m so sorry. If he promised he must have loved you very much.” Lady Barbrey’s dark eyes pinned her, and unprepared for the way the woman whipped her head around to stare, Sansa babbled a little. “Father wouldn’t have broken his word, so Uncle Brandon must have meant it. Which means that Grandfather Rickon was _making_ him marry mother and - I… _Oh_ …”

A horrible thought hit her and the bitterest smile she’d ever seen in her life painted over Lady Barbrey Dustin’s face.

“Go ahead and say it.”

Sansa’s tongue wouldn’t move.

“Fine, I’m not afraid of the truth.” Barbrey stood up. “He rode off to the Red Keep as much to get away from your _dear_ mother and that marriage as he did to get his sister back. Don’t think I don’t know it. Don’t think I don’t think of it more often than your Lord Father remembers he _had_ a brother.”

Sansa bit her tongue against the insult to her father, her heart hurting suddenly for a woman that she’d spent what felt like _forever_ viewing as an enemy to do battle against. After a few moments, her earlier bravado thoroughly forgotten, Sansa asked a hesitant question.

“You were married to Lord Dustin by then?”

“Willam Dustin was a good man, at least your father’s _finally_ bringing his bones back North as he should have all those years ago. He’ll bring the men from the Tower of Joy home after he’s seen to the new Princess and her babe.” She swallowed, then looked back, her eyes hard again. “Life’s not a song.”

“Uncle Brandon fought a duel over mother.”

“Brandon liked to fight. He had the wolf’s blood.” The words were soft and Sansa felt that hint of compassion right before Barbrey Dustin turned sardonic dark gray eyes on her again. “Besides, Petyr Baelish’s deathbed confession isn’t the first time the Realm’s heard of your mother’s days as a maiden in Riverrun. The servants liked to gossip about kissing games in the Godswood. Brandon was insulted.”

“They were _just_ kissing games.” Sansa argued, realized she’d played into the other woman’s hand and shrugged, attempting to regain her equilibrium and mostly failing. “Either way, it hardly matters _now_.”

“If that’s so, you’ve just undid your own argument in asking _me_ all of this.”

“Anything to do with _mother_ doesn’t matter, because her life is written.” Sansa tried again. “ _My_ life is just starting and since we’re to be kin, Aunt Barbrey, I wanted to know who you are. This is important. It also insulted House Ryswell and I have to know the truth of that before they’re my kin. Thank you for telling me.”

Lady got up and stretched dramatically. She yawned and showed off her teeth and, to Sansa’s surprised, Lady Barbrey Dustin actually chuckled. She’d never heard the lady laugh _pleasantly_ before, but it was a nice sound. Warm, a little wry, and… a lot like Domeric, actually.

“Well done, Little Fish.”

Sansa beamed and waited for more, then realized beaming was not the appropriate response as the woman’s expression turned irritated again.

“Go back to your mother and come back tomorrow as you should have done in the first place. Otherwise, keep your tongue in your head for once.”

Barbrey Dustin didn’t need to tell her that was a test. _Everything_ the woman did with Sansa was a test. But the young lady left feeling that, for once, she’d passed one. Next, all she had to do was convince her mother that she deserved to ride south with the party that was going to Riverrun in two or three moons to deliver the small herd of horses House Ryswell had agreed to sell to House Tyrell. Domeric was going, along with one of his Uncles, and Sansa was determined that she’d be there to see the next tourney that her _future husband_ rode in. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's see what Cersei's up to!

**The Red Keep, King’s Landing, Crownlands, 298 A.C.**

Lord Varys, Master of Whispers to two different kings and servant to neither, folded his hands inside his robe and bustled efficiently down the corridors of the Red Keep. Normally a great part of his image was in his serene attitude and the mannerisms he cultivated that Westeros chose to associate with those in his neutered state. From his high-pitched voice to his perfumes, Varys had long ago learned that the knights of Westeros would look down on and underestimate any eunuch that crossed their paths. All they needed was an excuse to do so more forcefully and their disdain became one more chink in their armor and one more link in his own coat of lies.

Lord Tywin was once more Hand of the King, and he didn’t appreciate tarrying in these difficult times. Not even from the Master of Whispers. So it only benefited Varys at the moment to accommodate Lord Tywin. The Old Lion was a dangerous man and would not cease to be as long as he breathed, but he was also very busy. Varys would encourage the other wheels to squeak as loudly as possible and accomplish what _he_ must more easily in the process. It was worth a little bustling.

Things were going quite well in Lord Varys’ opinion. There were loose ends he worried for, of course. He had lost the one he had truly favored for the Throne. Illyrio was dead and losing his dearest friend grieved him not just professionally, but personally. The Greyplague had stolen away _many_ of his plans, and Princess Daenaerys had always been more of a last resort than an active hope. He preferred not to fully endorse one of Aerys’ line without at least the buffer of _some_ outside blood in their veins. Now, as he understood it she was quite happy with her Horse Lord. Let her remain there unless all else had failed.

Varys knew the value of a leap of faith now and then and finding that Rhaegar had one living daughter left and the Gods had turned her black scales red with a Mark on her wrist had been a boon. Soulmarks had great power of persuasion with the Smallfolk. That House Martell was ascendant on their own merits and the princess was Marked and the soulmate of that House’s fiercest warrior? That was almost enough to convince Varys to offer some god a prayer.

 _Almost_ . Varys would give it more consideration should Prince Oberyn do what was desperately needed and _finally_ throw a son. He had hopes that it would be so. Women of Valyrian blood could be uncanny in their accuracy when it came to predicting their offspring and Princess Visenya, Lyarra Snow, was surely _most_ insistent it would be a boy according to the information he could get out of Dorne. It wasn’t as much as he’d like given Prince Doran’s excellent security, but as he understood it the Ruling Prince himself agreed with his new goodsister’s prediction. It could be a sign that the ailing, fifty-year-old man was humoring the young mother, but Varys thought not. He _hoped_ it meant that the man’s suspicions ran along the same line his own did.

Still, many needful things must be accomplished. Varys looked over the neatly organized annals of his mind for his tasks, both public and private and the goals that matched them. There was a meeting of the Small Council in but a few minutes. He was journeying there now.

He could not be entirely sure of the focus of the meeting. Lord Tywin would chair it and as much as the man and his family _did_ need to expire in some orderly fashion in the next few years to make way for the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms he had to admit it was a _delight_ to be on an organized and useful council again. Lord Tywin had been appointed acting hand, but Varys did not doubt he would keep the position as long as he willed. The King relied heavily on his personal likes and dislikes in his choices and there were few he was close to. Robert Baratheon would not hold back his grumbling and with Lord Stark unavailable he would, as always, take the path of least resistance. Lord Tywin would remain heading the Small Council until matters forced change upon them all. What would be interesting, Varys thought, was seeing _who_ forced _what_ and how much nudging he had to do in order to direct matters where they would most benefit Westeros itself.

“Lord Commander, you are looking well today. I hope your morning spar went well with Ser Wynsell?” Varys offered pleasantly and received a nod in return from the reliable old warrior. 

“The knight has shown great improvement in the last few moons and I have hope for the honor of the Kingsguard growing stronger in time. How are you, Lord Varys?”

“Oh, very well!” Varys offered a few more platitudes and cheerful simpering towards the grave, distinguished man.

Not the most intuitive or brilliant of fellows, Barristan the Bold, but there was no-one more honorable or reliable. Varys had taken great pains to keep the man’s unsubtle investigation of the Queen’s children secret. He had cast it as an inquiry into the number of bastards that the King held and their level of education and promise to Lord Tywin, who was expecting such an action from the Crown given the current state of Prince Joffrey. The idea certainly didn’t please the Old Lion, but the best lie was one with just enough fact in it to obscure the truth. 

The Hand of the King himself would arrive last, as he often did. One did _not_ want to step into the Small Council Chamber after Lord Tywin Lannister. So far, none had made that error. Varys might have to arrange such, however. One, it would be amusing. Two, it would be a good way to vex and unbalance Lord Tywin and the victim at some key point. 

Pycelle arrived next, mumbling out a greeting. The Grand Maester had spent the morning violating his vows of chastity with the unfortunate and destitute, as was usual. His breath smelled sourly of the sweetened milk he’d recently drunk. Varys ticked his presence as what it was: a placeholder and vote directed wherever the Lannisters wished it was. The only question now was whether he would jump towards the Queen or the Old Lion when the Game’s tempo advanced.

“Lord Commander.” Randyll Tarly, taciturn man that he was, bowed his head sharply at them as he entered but only greeted Selmy.

Varys smiled back and offered something cheerful just to rile the new Master of Laws. It was actually a fine choice on Lord Tywin’s part and something of a coup. The man was much involved in his own lands and the revival of the Old Gods that had spread there. It bore watching, but it remained that Tywin’s attaching enough dignity and recognition to the post had lured the powerful lord out of the Reach. A slight blow to House Martell as the man was a Marcher lord on the borders and was wedding into House Tyrell. A good balance, and an intelligent move in the Game.

The Master of Ships and Master of Coin followed. Both entered together, speaking avidly. Unsurprising, really. Lord Ardrian Celtigar was considered by all a sour old man. Sixty-eight with the silver-blond hair often seen in the various Crownlands Lords from around the Blackwater Bay, he’d grown thin with age. The Crab on his banner suited him well, as a face that was likely handsome in his youth had become lined and pinched with his age. Unhappily married three times with no issue, a great-nephew he would not permit on his island was now heir to the richest holding in the Crownlands. 

He was, however, a good choice for Master of Ships. Tywin’s choice to offer the role to a traditional Loyalist lord whose pride would push him to accept the position served to unbalance the strong ties of the Crownlands’ loyalists as well. If the man was far from a naval genius and the bulk of the Royal Fleet continued to unofficially answer to Lord Monford Velaryon, well, at least it served to annoy the crown’s opponents. Truly in touch with their Valyrian roots, all of those families took great glee in marrying each other and had for the last three-hundred years at least. The result was that they were more tightly knit than a smallfolk farming village and twice as likely to quarrel. Varys made a note that, if it got too disruptive before Lord Monford returned to take the matter in hand, he would have to do something about it. Likely something that would deeply please Lord Ardrian Celtigar’s great-nephew.

Lord Leo Lefford was younger than Celtigar, but they both had discovered a shared passion. When he wasn’t spending on himself Ardrian Celtigar was a penny pinch of the worst sort, and the Lord of Goldentooth was the same. Despite being one of the richest men in the Westerlands, Leo Lefford dressed well, but ate simply, drank the cheapest swill wine he could buy in from the Riverlands and almost never entertained. His first wife and only daughter had died of the Greyplague and his second wife had died only two moons past along with a premature son. His sister’s son, Davon Lannister, nephew of the late and much lamented Lady Joanna Lannister, was now his heir. Varys had been reliably informed he might soon take a leave of absence to go shopping for wife number three back in the Westerlands.

“-I am just endlessly _tired_ of hearing excuses on the matter of taxes!” Lefford’s conversation carried on easily with Celtigar, barely nodding at the other occupants of the room as they came in to take their seats around the large table. “Yes, the King was most generous with those newly elevated lords and with others over the years, but the plague has changed everything and it is time they did their duty. Taxes are to be paid in full and promptly or matters shall be dealt with swiftly.”

“ _I_ certainly never saw any generosity in regards to _my_ due tithes.” Celtigar sniffed. “And I paid well and in full when I ought.”

“Well, of course, you’re not one to be foolish over matters like the whining of smallfolk because of a bad year or some trade failure that is the Gods doing, not any Lord’s responsibility.” Lefford agreed. “Nor are you some hopped-up third son elevated by battle. You were raised to the duties of you rank.”

Randyll Tarly’s lips turned down slightly at this disrespect towards warriors. Varys noted the dislike that Master of Laws held for the other two for the future. At that moment Lord Tywin chose to join the meeting and everyone rose from their chairs as the man’s gaunt figure walked into the room. Still commanding, still as harsh as a fall on jagged rocks, but behind Varys’ calm and pleasant exterior an unseen smile was felt to note that the Old Lion leaned heavily on the cane the Greyplague had forced upon him. Yes, a cornered predator was dangerous… but that was what a crossbow was for, wasn’t it?

“Pray be seated.” Lord Tywin began the meeting as he usually did, taking his own seat and looking once around the table. “Lord Lefford, we will begin with an update on Crown Finances.”

“I have, through careful negotiations, secured considerable reductions in the loans we have abroad in Essos.” Lefford smiled with restrained pride, his brown eyes smug beneath his mop of graying blond hair. “Thanks to the booty the King took from the dissolution of House Waynwood, I have paid off the balance of debts owed outside of the Iron Bank to various individuals in Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh at this reduced rate and eliminated the need for future payments.”

“I had gathered such was the smallest amount of debt owed by the Crown?” Randyll Tarly, who had been most horrified by the Crown’s massive debt when he learned of it, spoke into the self-congratulatory silence and got a frown in return.

“The amount owed was, in total, more than half-a-million gold dragons considering the absolutely _punitive_ interest previous Masters of Coin were willing to take the loans out at. Something I would add was a clear dereliction of their duty! Through _my_ efforts, I reduced it to a series of one-time payments to end the debt equalling two-hundred-fifty-two-thousand. That is a _considerable_ savings.”

“I do not dispute this. However, I would note that this reduces the Crown’s debt to, what, precisely? _Five_ million gold dragons?” 

“Five-million-eight-hundred-and-forty-eight thousand, I believe, Lord Randyll?” Varys offered in his most helpful tone, allowing the sum to fall flat and create a delightfully leaden silence.

“Roughly three million of which is owed to _my_ house and two million owed to the Iron Bank of Braavos, with the excess owed to the Faith or House Tyrell.” Tywin’s voice was a quiet lash. “We are aware. How are you to approach further payments?”

“Assuming all taxes are paid timely I have established a payment plan with the Iron Bank which shall resolve matters for the Crown within twenty years at a bi-yearly sum that is manageable within your projected budget for court expenses, Lord Tywin.” Lefford now looked mildly nervous. “Should the King and Queen be persuaded to live more frugally further arrangements could be made to see… other debts equitably settled in much the same manner.”

“We shall speak of such later. Lord Celtigar, have you anything to add on the conditions of the Royal Fleet?”

“All is as it should be, Lord Hand. The fleet is at the ready and I have issued strongly worded warnings to those who have been overusing the ships’ fleet for personal commerce.”

Varys was amused to note that Celtigar himself had long been the greatest abuser of those rules in the Crownlands. He noted Lord Tywin’s green gaze flickered with a wry light, though his face remained as impassive as always. He would no doubt check to see if the Master of Ships’ letters were of any use, or had even been sent.

“Speaking on matter of shipping, the North receives Princess Lyarra’s bride price from the Dornish in a timely manner.” _If_ , Varys noted, Lord Tywin had the time. He would have to assure he did not. “It has rather dropped grain prices in the North itself, which is a rather nice boon for Lord Stark given the _sad events_ following Lord Arryn’s death in the Vale _did_ rather disrupt their normal trade there. I have heard, however, that Lord Stark’s primary bannermen were using the windfall to augment their stores further with a larger share of grain from the Riverlands. A nice boon for Lord Hoster's purse now that his son has _finally_ been so kind as to wed and get his Northern wife with child.”

“The North _would_ .” Lefford’s expression curdled quickly and he turned to his lord, briefly forgetting that he was to serve the _kingdom_ now and not his own people first. “ _That_ is sure to drive grain prices further upwards for the Westerlands. Lord Tywin, have we begun the buy-in from the Winterfund yet? I hesitate to speak of it, as it’s not my concern, but all noble households must do the same and tradition dictates we wait until the general buy-in has started so we do not drive the cost up further.”

“I agree with Lord Lefford, though the Reach needs not buy-in grain.” Tarly immediately began. “I don’t like to wait much further, though, even _if_ the Citadel is holding back on its White Ravens. I have had letters from both Lord Stark and my son speaking of the North’s preparations and I am beginning to feel the Citadel is remiss. If we must truly pay for this long summer, a responsible man would begin preparing sooner rather than later.”

“Lord Monford Velyaron presumes to try and instruct his kin much the same way.” Celtigar sneered. “I have told him more than once that it is the smallfolk’s duty to prepare themselves and my household is none of his concern.”

“It will be if your smallfolk take to brigandage.” 

“I don’t believe that _future_ and _supposed_ crimes are the Master of Law’s concern. _Especially_ if they should happen on the land of another lord who has duly served the Crown!”

“Yes, it would be so very _convenient_ if unruly smallfolk stayed on the land of those lords whose poor management skills led to their misbehavior in the first place, wouldn’t it?”

“Enough.”

Varys let loose the most annoying possible titter of tense worry into the thick silence that fell after Lord Tywin’s voice brought an end to the bickering. Varys had spent years honing his acting and was proud to say that the sound was _incredibly_ irritating. The Small Council _was_ ever so much more functional than those before, but it didn’t take _too_ much to stir the pot. Tarly’s expression of disgust at the nervous giggle was lovely. He’d gotten the man thoroughly out of sorts; he’d be unpleasant to everyone he met with for the rest of the day and uncooperative for hours as a result.

“We will consider financial matters closed for the day.” Lord Tywin said. “Winter preparations shall be spoken of in two days at our next meeting. Lord Randyll, I would like your conclusion on the state of the Gold Cloaks and brigandage in the Crownlands and the reports from beyond. After that, Lord Commander, I would hear your opinion on the same and security within the castle.”

Varys settled in for the rest of the meeting, mostly silent. Lord Tywin prompted him for his own information on the subjects at hand and he gave it readily. There actually wasn’t much to discuss. With the Prince of Tongues - _and he must congratulate Lord Robb Stark on that moniker, once he’d hard it the Spider had seen it spread as quickly as he possibly could in the South_ \- off under Guard in Casterly Rock, the Queen having come back from her religious retreat acting _most_ subdued, and Lord Tywin ably managing things while the King enjoyed his little war the Kingdom was most stable.

Varys thought delightfully of every single monster gliding under the surface of Westeros’ calm water, and he noted that this was the calm before the storm. 

* * *

**Sunspear, Dorne, 298 A.C.**

Lyarra pressed a series of kisses up the wrist and then drew a slow line up the palm and first finger of her husband’s hand before sighing at his groan and drawing his arm around her. Behind her, Oberyn’s own sigh ruffled her sweat-damp curls. She felt him nuzzling at the crown of her head before he spoke.

“You are too good a woman to indulge me so, in your condition, after such an absence.”

“I am but doing my duty as a wife.” Lyarra yawned, happy for the softness of the crisp cotton sheets beneath them even _if_ they were thoroughly soiled by their activities. “Besides, the entire point in organization and planning is that you may find yourself with a few free hours amidst the worst of the hectic preparations for something like this.”

“And there is your household.”

“Yes, they’ve been a gift from the Gods.” Lyarra smiled. “I’m glad you suggested Lady Allyria Dayne. I like her.”

“I am pleased there was no friction with those ladies already present.”

Lyarra nodded and smiled as she felt her husband shift and his hand slip its way out from between her thighs. Though she had been deemed too far along to make love in the traditional manner by her husband, that hadn’t limited them as she thought it would. After the formal greeting of the bridal party as they arrived at Sunspear everyone had retired to rest through the midday heat. The real wedding festivities would begin at sunset with the grand feast to celebrate Prince Quentyn and Lady Tayla Wyl’s arrival with the rest of their noble escort. The next day there would be the wedding ceremony and feasts and dancing required. After that, five more days would be spent in celebration as the tourney carried on in the vast spread of vibrant tents now surrounding the Shadow City.

For a few hours, though, Lyarra wasn’t worried about being a _princess_. That was no easy thing for her and there had been so much more to learn with her arrival in Dorne than she’d even thought of in all of Lady Jynessa and Lady Myria’s lessons on the road south from Winterfell. That said, she wasn’t alone and Lyarra had found that the events of King’s Landing had done much for her reputation. Dorne had received her happily enough and Lyarra was relieved to find that her duties were not light by any means, but the support she received was sufficient for her to carry them out. 

With a sordid and contented noise her husband moved backwards away from her, his softening manhood slipping from between her thighs as he pulled away to sit up. She yawned as the warmth draped across her back vanished and the sweat there cooled with the advent of space and air between them. Oberyn Martell sat up, stretching and smiling in satisfaction and Lyarra reached for him with the boldness of one very thoroughly married, debauched, and satisfied by one’s soulmate. The Viper grinned toothily and preened, the flat muscles of his stomach tensing as her hand cupped his thigh and then her fingers ghosted over his member.

“Are you not satisfied yet, Darling? If not I am more than willing to be fashionably late, but most protest my great and decrepit age shall require some _encouragement_ before I progress…”

“Great and decrepit age. To hear you say that after all the complaining you’ve done over Arya’s jokes.” Lyarra snorted in the most unladylike manner possible and withdrew her wandering hand to begin levering herself up off her side and into a sitting position as he knelt beside her on the bed. “You _carried_ me up here, intend to ride in the joust days hence, and reached your peak _three times_. Men half your age weep.”

“You are being unusually kind to my ego. I am mildly afraid to ask what your ladies or my daughters have been up to in my absence.” 

“I’m just attempting to sooth your poor, gentle, sensitive soul before you learn that Dorea and Loreza have both enjoyed the festivities so much that they’ve announced that _they_ want to get married, too.”

Oberyn’s look of horror in return was actually genuine, Lyarra realized as she felt the wash of shock over their bond from her husband. 

“They are _babes_! Neither is yet eight namedays old!”

“No, but they’re perfectly capable of doing the simple math between _my_ age and their own and have deemed that it’s _entirely_ too long, but they can be patient if they have to and wait until they’re four-and-ten as well.”

“No daughter of _mine_ is wedding at four-and-ten!”

Lyarra raised an eyebrow, put her hand firmly on her fat belly. Her son promptly kicked at it, and she cocked an eyebrow at her husband. Oberyn made a face in return.

“Wicked she-wolf. That was the _Gods’_ doing, not mine.” Oberyn growled and leaned forward to press his lips hard against hers, gently cupping a breast as he did, speaking after he’d left her breathless from the kiss. “You’ve grown more a woman every day. Stop encouraging my daughters to do the same. I _firmly_ forbid my girls from growing up and leaving me.”

“Pity, it seems Sarella and Lord Willas are only becoming fonder of one another now that they’ve actually met…”

“I am betrayed on all sides! My brother stages a wedding that perverts the hopes of my youngest daughters, my very _soulmate_ encourages it, and my friend is intent on stealing away my middle child!”

“Life is so difficult for you.”

“I’m glad you understand the hardships that I face, wife.” Oberyn pulled back and cracked his neck, yawning hugely for himself and looking at one of the windows and the intricate wooden screen that covered in with a twist of his expressive mouth. “Time marches on, however. We’d best call for our baths for the feast.”

Lyarra made a noise of assent and nodded, but didn’t immediately make to stand. Standing was a great production now and she was willing to wait a bit as she maneuvered comfortably to the edge of the great bed. She’d been surprised to arrive in Sunspear and find that Dornish and Northern tradition mirrored each other in the matter of living accommodations for married couples. While she and Oberyn had separate solars both shared his bedchamber. 

It was a large room cut with five sides, several times the size of the room she’d shared with Gwyn in Winterfell. The walls were plastered white but accented with brightly colored tiles such as the ones that covered the floor. One large table of reddish wood unfamiliar to Lyarra stood along the wall, its legs carved like sea serpents and its top a geometric pattern of blue and white stone. Another, smaller, round table stood near the large fireplace. The ebony of the chairs was polished to a gloss that well-matched the table with its mother-of-pearl inlay, and the red marble of the fireplace contrasted sharply with both. 

Most of the furniture was composed of lush, brightly patterned carpets heaped with large cushions of various shapes. Such nooks and crannies were comfortable in the extreme thanks to the chill radiating up from the cool tile floor. It made them wonderful locations for lovemaking or simply laying about with several children and reading or telling stories. In another gesture of kindness that contrasted with his fierce reputation, several of the Northern style wall hangings from her trousseau had also joined the other decorations in the room.

Three of the walls were entirely covered with sturdy, highly polished, ironwood shelving. Bound volumes filled them along with pieces of her own carvings. Many were strange foreign works he’d collected in his travels, but Lyarra had been surprised and pleased to find a great deal of it was his own work. Stories of his travels, drawings of far off places, and a great number of poems all had been created by her brilliant, vibrant, strange, dangerous, and compassionate soulmate. She’d even been able to honestly tell him that _she_ admired his poetry quite a bit, which she had found a greatly appreciated compliment. Since arriving at Sunspear she had discovered that crafting poetry was considered an important part of the noble education in Dorne, and most especially for its ruling house. Doran and the rest of House Martell and no few of their more distant relatives tended to critique Oberyn’s poetry rather harshly. Lyarra had, at first, thought that it was because her husband wrote so much erotic work. She had since discovered that it had nothing to do with that and everything to do with highly esoteric rules and traditions involving poetry that she did not know, did not understand, and didn’t feel particularly motivated to care about. _She_ liked Oberyn’s work, and that was quite good enough for her.

Oberyn was currently wandering around in shameless nudity, scratching the back of his head and peering down at the neatly written summary of the wedding and its events she’d left atop the other, unopened, correspondence on his traveling desk. Lyarra’s sense of Northern frugality had been pleased to note that he used the same folding, traveling, soldier’s desk in his quarters as had been present in his pavilion during their journey.

“I’m sorry.” Oberyn turned back to her and saw her sitting upon their bed, her feet on one of the carpeted steps and the mosquito netting that was draped around it in the place of heavy bed curtains falling on either side of her shoulders, and mistook the situation. “Here, I shall help.”

“I can get up, Oberyn.” Lyarra shook her head, but let him take her hands and help her onto her feet. “I was just thinking of how much things have changed for me in the last year.”

“I could say the same, but it would be a lie.” 

“What were _you_ thinking of, then?”

Her husband leaned against the enormous, strange round bed that dominated their room, one shoulder resting against the great ebony pillars that held up the carved canopy. As a carver herself Lyarra admired the work greatly. Carved to resemble tree trunks with roots woven together like a basket to form the bed’s base and branches to form the round canopy, each smooth tree trunk was wrapped in climbing serpents spirling up into the canopy overhead. The bed linens were a mix of crisp white cotton sheets and layers of red, garnet, saffron, and gold. Red and garnet dominated, as was fitting given that the gods had bound her to the Red Viper.

“Honestly, I was wondering if I should allow Eddric to ride the tourney against some of the younger squires. Elia will be riding, and though she is older and rather better than he is at such, the boy is improving greatly. His swordsmanship, for one, comes up in leaps and bounds.”

“You’re surprised?”

“Given that he is following your sister about any time he is not waiting on me? Not particularly.” Oberyn smiled and turned a friendly leer in her direction. “Syrio could not resist another pupil so earnest. As a wealthy young Lord, Eddric could afford to augment the man’s fees for lessons in return for more time with his young love.”

Lyarra flushed as she realized why. With a great deal of effort he had corrupted _her_ to the point of walking around _naked_ in the privacy of their rooms. Who could blame her, though? After lovemaking and in the heat of the day nudity was simply preferable, at least until the sweat cooled. At that moment the late afternoon light from the window screens was undoubtedly painting her skin orange. She had no idea why he found it worth staring at, but it was embarrassing.

“Being with child suits you, my lady. Our daughter looks well on you.”

“Our _son_ shall be happy to get out into the world where he has more space.” Lyarra countered, one hand on her belly, and ignoring his amused grin in return. She was right, he was wrong, and wouldn’t _he_ be surprised when it was a boy? “I’m going to be _incredibly_ amused when the betting pools surrounding _our son’s birth_ turn into a melee in a moon or so, husband.”

“And, speaking of, as soon as the tourney is over we shall be for the Water Gardens so you can have your lying in.”

“Gods-be-good, _yes_. I suppose it is unkind of me to wish that Lady Tayla have to pick up her duties as the primary princess of House Martell so soon after her marriage, but-.”

A stubborn scratching came from the polished and carved door to Lyarra’s bathing and dressing room and she smiled crookedly. She also reached for the silk robe draped over a chair, though she wasn’t sure why. She’d be naked again soon… still, it just seemed polite. Oberyn, of course, remained naked as he stood, leaning against the mantle and examining a small jewel box carved from some of the goldenheart lumber that had been a belated wedding gift to her in the shape of a sleeping leopard.

“Is this new?”

“Yes.” Lyarra rolled her eyes at her husband’s antics as she gave permission to open the door.

“I see you left your shame in Wyl, Your Grace.” Gwyn Parren observed, turning pink and firmly averted her gaze from the naked prince lounging against the fireplace.

“On the contrary, I killed that decades ago and left it in the desert.”

“I’m sure some poor vulture ate it and now none of the other vultures will have anything to do with it.”

Oberyn grinned at the sally and Lyarra laughed.

“I know, Gwyn, I must get ready. Is the bath drawn?”

“It is, but I also wanted to ask if it’s alright if I may take on a few more of Walda’s duties? She wants more time to dance tonight.”

“That’s fine, Gwyn.” Lyarra blinked, surprised. “You love to dance, though?”

“I like country dances. Dances here have too much touching and holding one person.” Gwyn wrinkled her nose and Lyarra paused and agreed with a nod. Dornish dances tended to focus on spending more time with a single partner and were more sensual and individual than dances to the North of the Red Mountains. 

“I hope this will not interfere with your _other_ duties?” Oberyn asked, turning, and Gwyn looked at the prince, finally, though she kept her eyes firmly up on his face.

“No.” She paused. “Prince Doran wishes to speak of that to the family soon, I think.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Prince Doran will tell me when I’m sure.”

Oberyn’s look of betrayal forced Lyarra to muffle a laugh as she pushed her friend from the bedchamber. She was sure what really irked Oberyn was Gwyn’s seriousness. Gwyn remained herself. She still wanted to get into things she should not. She still loved to spend hours in the kitchen. The differences made by Amory Lorch’s death and the health crisis that had followed on the ship were more subtle.

Physically, Gwyn did look different. You could not easily see the ugly scar upon her leg where the wound had been opened up twice and scraped to remove infection thanks to its location on her thigh. What was apparent was maturity leant to her by a few months time. Gwyn had been three-and-ten when they’d left Winterfell, and baby fat still clung to her face and form. The weight lost on the sail to Dorne had never quite returned, nor in the same way and the sharp, leonine beauty the bone structure of her face had promised had finally come through. Tanned a dark, tawny gold in the Dornish sun and with curves blossoming around her form, Gwyn Parren had never looked more like a lioness. Lyarra also noted with a little surprise that her resemblance to the Queen has grown as well, as the sun burnished her golden hair brighter.

 _“I’ve never looked more a Lannister.”_ Gwyn had commented in amusement early on and Lyarra had been forced to agree.

That was largely why Gwyn had taken on the less obvious of the household tasks for Lyarra. While Gwyn’s reputation in Dorne was not negative thanks to her actions in King’s Landing, it remained that her looks were not _quite_ safe. She could no longer wander around alone nor could she blend in easily with the Salty Dornish servants. Instead she spent a lot of time either keeping Lyarra company and working on the endless sewing that surrounded Lyarra’s new station and life and coming baby or she was with Prince Doran as he teased everything she knew of the Westerlands from her mind. 

Then, of course, there were the _ledgers_. Lyarra was not unaware of them. They were being worked on quietly by the family and one or two highly trusted servants. Lady Ladybright, Prince Doran’s trusted treasurer, had spent some time with them. Lyarra had included herself simply to hear the math and the mechanics of how the winterfund itself worked in the hopes of maybe suggesting more realms could adopt such a thing for their smallfolk’s good. In the process, though, she could only listen and learn so much. Prince Doran kept most things close. 

“Lyarra?”

“I’m sorry, my mind is wandering again.” Lyarra wrinkled her nose and linked her arm through Gwyn’s, going into the bathing chamber. “Allyria’s handing things out there, then?”

“She is.”

Inside the bathing chamber was a large black marble bath filled with cool water. In the heat of Dorne almost no one chose a _hot_ bath, though Lyarra sometimes missed it all the same. Her dress hung upon a wooden stand off to the side near the small, delicate, ebony and nacre vanity and mirror that had been a gift to her from House Yronwood when she wed Oberyn. 

Lyarra’s household could have been larger, but she’d been grateful when Prince Doran suggested not over-inflating it with Prince Quentyn’s marriage approaching so rapidly. She had six ladies; Lady Allyria Dayne, Lady Nymeria Sand, Lady Iryna Martell, Lady Arya Stark, Lady Walda Frey, and Lady Gwyn Parren. The order was not accidental.

While part of Lyarra had yearned to make Gwyn the main lady of her household out of love and gratitude for her unflagging friendship it wasn’t feasible. Gwyn was too foreign and too young. Lyarra needed a _Dornish_ lady to help her with her duties and Lady Allyria had proven perfect. Her warmth was such that Lyarra wondered with some pain if this was her aunt. All she could do was remind herself of her father’s promise and that his last letter had promised he would sail South as soon as he’d freed himself of the cleanup in the Vale.

“Why am I _not_ surprised that he’s left you all sticky like this?” Iryna Martell was one of only two Martell cousins left to the House; her father, Ser Manfrey, and herself. She raised her voice and glared at the closed door back to the room. “Cousin, this is why nobody will bathe with you or your lovers!”

“You will never wed if you’re afraid of a little honest sweat and spunk, little cousin!”

“As long as they’re nobody as disgusting as you, I’ll survive!”

“Let him have it!” Gwyn whispered back, grinning, as Lyarra tossed her robe at the darker of the two blondes in the room and sank into her bath.

“I heard that!”

“Congratulations, your hearing is still excellent, Prince Oberyn!”

“Despite his decrepit great age!”

“Your father is twelve years my senior, shall I tell him the same?”

“He’ll use it as an excuse to nap and drink too much and thank you for it!”

“Stop it and help me into the bath!” Lyarra laughed, reaching out to tug at one of Iryna’s curls as a blonde moved to either side to support her elbows.

Ser Manfrey Martell was one of the few of the family who showed a hint of his long-forgotten but much-remarked upon Targaryen blood. Lyarra did not know what color the fifty-three-year-old knight’s hair had originally been, but it was now purely silver gray. His skin and features were much like Oberyn’s, though not as refined or handsome, but his eyes were pale lavender. Something he tended to insist was more the result of his mother being a Dayne cousin than anything dragon-related. 

He had wed a Lysine woman, however, and Iryna largely took after her mother. Iryna Martell had pale, soft blonde hair several shades lighter than Gwyn’s, though cut in ringlets that only fell to her shoulders, and large lavender eyes fringed in sandy lashes that clashed with the black kohl used in Dorne. Her figure was lean and delicately high breasted on the maiden of seven-and-ten. Her behavior, however, was pure Martell. Though her father was Sunspear’s Castellian she had been raised largely in a comfortable courtyard house in the Shadow City she found being part of Lyarra’s household exciting. Lyarra took this as a compliment as she’d grown up playing with the Sandsnakes.

“The food is going as it should.” Gwyn began to report as she dumped a handful of floral-scented shampoo from one of the cut glass bottles set in a wall nook beside the bath into her hands and attacked Lyarra’s hair. “Walda’s doing one last check on that now, but everything’s well for a feast this large. I’m glad the Prince’s people are handling the public largesse in the city; that’s _such_ a job.”

“Really, all of the courses are going well?”

“Yes, one for each of the Seven.” 

Lyarra had been more than a little daunted to realize that, while Oberyn cared not which Gods she worshipped as long as she was polite and respectful of his own beliefs and others, there were entire rules of etiquette and customs she had to learn tied up in the Faith Lady Stark had so used to reject and hurt her as a child. Traditionally in the South _very_ important banquets had seven courses, one for each of the Gods. For smallfolk this might just mean seven dishes present at a wedding, or even seven ingredients in a stew. For the Princely House of Dorne it mean something a little more lavish.

The first course, the Maiden’s, had be be composed of white foods to represent innocence. Pale, finely ground flour for the flatbread, white cheese, fish, the palest of grapes, milk and white wines. They’d had to get _inventive_ . Then came the Warrior’s, for the groom, which featured dark wines, red meats, and a theme that everyone said was strength but was really _blood_. Then there were the Mother’s and Father’s, which were varied and represented plenty and power; rich foods and heavy spices. The Smith and Crone were hearty and wholesome in varied ways. Then in the end the Stranger stood opposite the Maiden with coffee served and dark desserts mirroring the pale foods the feast started with.

“Even the marzipan and great pie?”

“Yes.”

“Thank the Gods.” Lyarra allowed Gwyn to scrub at her hair as she accepted a soft rag and bar of soap from Iryna, turning her gaze on the younger girl. “And the maids?”

“Marshalled and reminded firmly that they’re expected to take anyone they’re entertaining _out_ of the Hall of the Sun and into another chamber.”

“Good.”

“I even chose a few chambers and found a few of the minstrels who might otherwise wander away from the main feast to drink and made it clear they’re expected to keep working. If they leave the Great Hall they’re to entertain the revelers who’ve gone to the small chambers to revel in peace and relative privacy.” Iryna announced proudly, though she did pause to think. “I’m not sure whether it will be to your credit that nobody’s going to be allowed to roll under the tables and couple at this wedding or you’ll be thought a bit prudish.”

“I care not a bit. Prince Quentyn and Prince Doran agreed with me.” Lyarra sniffed, trying not to blush and then wondering why she had when she was heavily pregnant and both of her ladies not only knew she had just bedded her husband, but had _seen proof_. That did not help in her quest to stop blushing. 

“Both our princes are wonderful men, but a bit _stodgy_ at times.” 

“By _Dornish_ standards, Iryna.” Gwyn wrinkled her nose. “If people just start coupling all over the place may I _please_ be excused, Lyarra?”

“Take me with you.” Lyarra muttered, then waved off Iryna’s comment before she could make it. “Don’t say a word about my husband. He’s my soulmate. I love Oberyn. However, in some things we shall always be very different.”

Lyarra stood up, leaning on Gwyn as she did so, careful not to drip on her friend as she was already dressed. Gwyn had taken happily to Dornish fashion. She wore a pale blue breast band embroidered in her heavy fashion with white daisies. Over that her draped dress split from each shoulder where the thin, powder blue linen was gathered and was only joined and cinched at her waist with a white and yellow sash. Her skirts went to her feet where soft leather sandals finished the look and her blonde hair was loose in lazy waves down her back. 

Iryna was wearing pale orange. Taking advantage of her spare figure she wore no breastband at all and counted on the careful placement of laces across the open back and deep v-neck of her dress to hold everything in place. The hem fell in layers like a flower’s petals and would swing and reveal her slim, dark legs when she danced. 

“I’m going to look like an overripe strawberry next to you two.” 

Lyarra’s complaint triggered insistent denials as she got into her own dress. To support her own figure, grown lusher with pregnancy, the dress had a high waist beneath a gathered square neckline. The vibrant scarlet dress ran from the straps over each shoulder down to a short train all in closely gathered silk that felt wonderful against her skin. It’s total lack of embroidery was more than made up for by her mantle, though she wouldn’t wear the cloak for long. Instead it would end up draped over the back of her chair at the feast like a kind of personal banner.

The object had been a gift from Prince Doran and Lyarra had to admit she was fond of it. Lined with black satin the material of the mantle proper was an incredibly heavy, luxurious silk. All across the back creatures of legend were embroidered by the skilled hands of a professional, accented with tiny glittering gems and glass beads. White direwolves, dragons, serpents, the sun and spear of House Martll, and bits of the night sky were depicted in fine detail. 

The mantle would be worn last, however. For now Lyarra submitted to sitting in front of the vanity as Iryna carefully applied kohl and shadows around her eyes and darkened her lips. Gwyn, in turn, used a seemingly endless supply of pins and red ribbons to pile her curls in a knot atop her head and allow a few stray bits to cascade down over her shoulder. Lyarra sent a prayer of thanks for her husband’s love of a challenge. Even if he got entirely too drunk enjoying the festivities he’d still happily free her hair of its confines before bed, mumbling licentious poetry to her while he did so.

Allyria Dayne breezed in with a scratch while Lyarra’s jewelry was going on. She wore the crown of golden chains and copper sun from her bridal jewels, her wedding ring, of course, and was slipping the wolf’s head torc her father had gifted her on her wrist when her most senior lady arrived. As usual, Allyria was a vision of beauty, poise, and exasperation.

“Iryna, either put on a breast band or use gum. Your father is too busy minding the guards and everything else to have a fit because he can see your nipples through the silk of your gown. Lady Gwyn, you look lovely, and _thank you_ for putting your hair down.”

“What?”

“The braids were a little too Westerlands.”

“I didn’t mind.” Gwyn offered, curious. “Do I need more jewelry?”

“You don’t want attention, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

Lyarra recalled from her lessons that, in Dorne, an unwed maiden could communicate their intentions through their jewelry. Silver, gold, glass, ivory, and other materials all had meanings. So did the amount of jewelry and how it was worn. Gwyn had recently, with encouragement from Nymeria, gotten her navel pierced and a little golden spider rested their peacefully, a garnet hourglass on its back.

“You need a neck torc, then, something solid, not a chain.” Lyarra advised and Allyria’s full lips broke into a smile in her fair face, the black hair trailing down her back in a plait touched with golden ribbons framed the expression perfectly beneath dark blue eyes.

“The Princess is right.”

“Is that what the plain band Prince Doran gave me is for?”

“Yes, silver denote virginity and its unbroken status and lack of decoration means you wish to stay that way.” Allyria clarified and Gwyn turned, offered Lyarra a quick embrace of encouragement, and went off to her quarters to fetch the missing jewelry item. “Is there anything else we can do for you, Princess Lyarra, before we go down?”

Lyarra wished for a moment that Allyria could feel less like a dedicated and fond retainer and more like _family_ , but pushed it away.

“Do you know where Arya is?”

“She’s supposed to be getting ready with Lady Nymeria.”

“Which one?”

“My cousin, Nym.” Iryna replied and Allyria’s expression turned pensive; at five-and-twenty she was the eldest of them and years of responsibility for her nephew had made her serious. "Oh, Nymeria's volunteered to circulate during the feast and direct conversation early in the evening, but says she'll be busy later. Probably in those rooms you're not going in."

“Where _are_ the direwolves going to be for the feast, Princess?” Lady Ashara redirected conversation.

“Well-fed and sleeping comfortably in Arya’s room.” Lyarra sighed. “It’s cooler.”

Unlike Lyarra her sister hadn’t entirely taken well to the Dornish heat. She’d been given a room close to the nursery, next to Septa Mercy, where the castle was cooler. While Ghost slept in Lyarra and Oberyn’s chambers, always, Arya’s chamber or the nursery playroom had become where they chose to sleep when their people nudged them to be out of sight for everyone’s happiness.

A scratch at the door proceeded its opening by a bare second and Iryna jumped. Allyria frowned, but Lyarra had sensed it coming and turned. Her soulmate stood in the doorway. Tall and lean, the power of his wiry frame was emphasized by the snug, wine-colored trousers he wore. He’d forgone a tunic and his chest was sculpted and hairless beneath his open coat of thin, finely done ochre leather bordered by lavish embroidery in slithering red and black serpents. Without looking she knew that, across the back, the Martell Banner would be stretched between his shoulders. Across his brow a copper serpent slithered, his favorite circlet, and Lyarra smiled at the bone white of his weirwood wedding ring gleaming on his hand.

“Ladies, I believe it is time.”

* * *

**The Red Keep, King’s Landing, Crownlands, 298 A.C.**

Queen Cersei Lannister had returned to the Red Keep riding a delicately stepping white donkey. Her golden hair had been cut short to halo around her head, much as septas wore it within their wimples. Her dress was simple and modest, mostly black but with golden accents in the King’s colors rather than that of her own house. She’d arrived with many guards, as was predictable given how she had left, but while they were present they were not as necessary. Having traded her elaborate and immense wheelhouse for numerous large carts filled with coarse bread she came back with an escort of wandering septons and septas who loudly shouted out the Queen’s reformation and generosity. Who apologized in her name and offered largesse freely.

The crowds of King’s Landing did not forget, but their attention span was at times questionable. Free food was never to be turned down. The Faith had betrayed them utterly in the Plague and at most times they were angry, but they could not easily forget centuries of assistance, either. The sight of the Queen’s still-great beauty humbled and weeping for them was moving and they’d welcomed her to the city with restrained warmth that had increased in the days that followed as she made other remarkable gestures of piety, such as climbing the steps of the Great Sept barefoot and kissing the feet of the High Septon.

Likewise, in the moons since the last of the Great Riots, things _had_ been improving in the city. The Faith was working harder in general to try and regain favor, though in many cases it was failing. Angry, fiery sermons did not attract those who felt betrayed back into the fold. The plague had cast the strength of the New Gods into great doubt. Charity, however, was more persuasive, and while there wasn’t enough to stem the tide of dissatisfaction, a lull had fallen over everything.

“Amazing isn’t it, how _sweet_ the bloodthirsty wretches seem when their worm-filled bellies are warm with bread, isn’t it?” 

“Everyone wants to survive, my Queen. If they think you’ll give them what they want, they’ll follow you anywhere. Once they think you cannot provide… their loyalty is less assured.”

Cersei Lannister turned around and smiled at her guardian. Ser Jorah Mormont had proven _very_ loyal to Robert. He’d gone to Stokeworth when awarded the castle and lands and quickly put them back into order. After discovering that the steward had been stealing from funds meant for the royal coffers and selling its produce rather than shipping it to King’s Landing as ordered, Mormont had put the First Man Justice Stark had wanted to bring down on the knight’s neck to use in depriving the steward of his head. Then he had set to work bringing the much-needed food to the city.

After that had followed other jobs. Cersei’s father had, as Master of Laws, quickly taken the Gold Cloaks in hand. Dismissing or executing those too foolish or cowardly to do his duty he’d brought in other knights and men who could be counted on to execute orders as told. He had reestablished the courts, stocking them with good men loyal as they _should_ be who got the complaints of the smallfolk back in order to placate the masses. As the rest of the Small Council had been of little use he had also made plans that he could _finally_ put into action with Lord Arryn’s death to begin ordering the rest as it should be as well.

Part of that had led to Ser Jorah’s increased presence in the capital. Stokeworth, Rosby, and several other more inland Crownlands castles had all been awarded to loyal men after the Rebellion. Loyal to Robert, but not necessarily competent off of the battlefield, they had never been properly taxed nor done their duty in terms of victualing the capital. The shamed Northman had proven the perfect enforcer to go aboung and change this, and Cersei noted with disgust that the man was hardly special.

Tall, broad, and coarse, Ser Jorah was nothing next to Jaime’s beauty or skill. All he had to his credit was strength and basic competence. He could follow orders. The fact that Robert hadn’t even been intelligent enough to find a few more such replicable men and put them to seeing needful tasks through _years_ ago just showed how wretched her idiot of a husband was.

Ser Jorah had been who her father sent to fetch her from the Mother House. Her fithly prison where she’d spent days listening to the carping of useless, withered old husks of women too ugly and poor and stupid to even be wed off to a landless knight. Cersei had hated every moment of it as she listened to the jealous rantings of mad zealots as those empty vessels who’d never even _held_ a child dared tell _her_ that the Gods had taken her perfect golden babes from her because _she_ had sinned. Those useless, witless and unimportant old hags who thought to tell _her_ how to live.

It had its uses, though. Cersei had gone into the Mother House furious, but also even she could see now that she hadn’t been in control. Not as she should be. The grief for her poor Myrcela and Tommen, so sweet and innocent, had been too great. She’d not recovered as she should and behaved in a rash and uncoordinated fashion. She’d failed her goals and she’d weakened herself and her standing. She hadn’t been there for Joffrey as she should. That would all change now, and in that Ser Jorah did indeed have his uses.

“It is hard to find a good, _loyal_ man.” Cersei agreed as she stood. 

She was no longer out amidst the stinking masses. She’d dressed in a fine gown of emerald silk that made her eyes gleam. With her hair shorn short, infuriating as it was, she could not use a cascade of golden curls to frame her beauty, but the lines of her face looked even purer. She took advantage of this by draping a thin veil of golden Myrish lace over her head and securing it with a thin golden circlet. Little as she liked that anyone else would dictate fashion, she took advantage of the little northern bastard’s effect. Her gown fit snugly against every curve in her figure rather than being robe-like in the Pentoshi fashion, and the long sleeves were split so her bare arms could be put to best effect, clasped as they were with jeweled bracelets.

Ser Jorah stood a respectful distance back from her. Her father’s spy, her newest maid, sat in the room embroidering a veil in dowdy, middle-aged, splendor. Cersei resented the woman’s presence, but understood it. She had made mistakes and must regain his trust. She was determined to do so by proving herself, but to do that she had to regain power over her own faction. Ser Jorah had rallied that part of the Crownlands around the capital that wasn’t held by the Loyalist families of the bay. His actions made him a natural leader there, and while his history was dark his martial abilities were useful in impressing the usual spate of men who cared only for who swung a sword and what swung between their legs.

“Your service to the Crown has been a gift from the Warrior, Ser Jorah.” Cersei went on and while his posture and distance were all any husband or father could want, it was his eyes and the thin sheen of sweat on the man’s brow that Cersei watched.

Some men lived to serve. Others simply lived to be enslaved by women. Jorah was the later and the first time she’d seen him, coming out of the Mother House with her head held high despite the ridiculous coarse shift they’d dressed her in, she’d known he would easily fall to her spell. Just as he’d let that Hightower woman ruin his life in the North due to his lack of a spine, Cersei could command him here and now with the proper effort.

“Thank you, Your Grace. How may I serve you?”

“I didn’t ask you to Maegor’s Holdfast to give you more work!” 

The man’s thin lips twitched up at her soft laugh.

“I asked you here to thank you for your service. Not least of which is all you have done to aid my father.” 

“Lord Tywin’s done much to settle the city and see it back to proper peace. A place like this… let alone a kingdom. It requires a lot of management.” 

“I know. I feel so many women _forget_ the suffering and work that their men do to keep us in the luxury and safety we call home.” Cersei agreed, allowing some of the real pain she still felt to slip through. “I was guilty of this myself, before I was brought out of my grief for my children. I regret my behavior terribly, but I can only move on.”

“It is all any of us can do, Your Grace.”

Cersei treated him to another smile and moved to a small, marble-topped table. Sitting atop it was a dagger. It was a fine thing and had been found by one of her servants in that traitor, Petyr Baelish’s, quarters after he died. 

“A token of my gratitude for all your good works, Ser.”

Mormont’s face was a mask of shock as he took the blade and turned it over in his hands. Simple though it was, its handle was dragonbone, polished smooth by ages of use. When he unsheathed it, the blade glimmered like dark water. Cersei waited.

“Valyrian steel, Your Grace? Surely you would wish to keep such a fine and valuable piece in your family.”

“My family does not lack for valuable things, Ser Jorah, nor the gold to acquire more.” Cersei shook her head and reached out, her behavior appropriate enough to garner no more than quiet observation from the fat old maid, but underneath that her touch on his hands was caressing as she closed them again around the hilt. “Please, take it and use it well. I _want_ you to have it.”

His dark eyes were filled with just the right note of hopeless longing as he thanked her and bowed his way out of her solar. The Queen waited a moment, then turned back to the maid. The woman rose and stood attentively in silence. 

“I wish to attend my correspondence now, and would have wine brought up and _fresh_ water, for once, if it’s to be had in this city. I shall not be going out again today.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The woman departed and Cersei relished the silence of being alone. She missed her twin like a lost limb and Jaime’s absence plagued her for it delayed her desire to cement their position with another of _her_ children. She could do nothing about it at the moment, save continue with her plans.

The Small Council was managing what Baelish had stolen from the Crown and as a result of that they would have to continue to coddle the sensibilities of the masses. Court had been much reduced. So had spending in general.

Cersei found she didn’t mind seeing most of the sycophants gone. She _did_ find herself annoyed that her own funds were so much reduced. While she appreciated the loyalty of her father’s men she’d spent _years_ working her own people into the fabric of the Red Keep and it was frustrating to have lost so many. Amory Lorch should have been pleased with his entry in whatever Hell he sat in now; she’d have made it far worse than some panicked girls given how he’d failed her.

Sitting at the small, private desk in her bedchamber she reached beneath the top with the very tips of her long, sculpted fingernails. Slipped between two layers of wood and barely accessible even to the careful prying she did, was a letter. To get it to fit her servants had pounded the wax seal flat before slipping it up here when delivering her laundered bed linens. It was from her twin and she resented that all she could smell on the parchment was fresh air and the dusty scent of a ravenry. She missed Jaime.

The letter was just as it should be. It was short and it showed the usual misspellings and dropped words that Jaime suffered from. The Gods had not made her the firstborn between them and the one with the stronger mind for nothing. His words reaffirmed their love without using language that could be faulted between twins. Most importantly, however, it told her of the treachery planned against her son.

 _No_ , Cersei corrected herself, _not treachery_ . She had thought too long in terms of betrayal and loss and foolish sentimentality. She had been _meant_ to wed Rhaegar, who would have been a _great_ King, not like the fool she’d been wed to. He’d never have taken her like a brute on their wedding night. He’d never have allowed some Dornishman to claim superiority by realizing how to spread the inoculation first. Rhaegar was dead, however, stolen away by a useless, sickly twat from Dorne and a half-wild bitch from the North, then killed by Robert.

Robert wasn’t merely a failed king and her husband. She wasn’t just his Queen by marriage. Her son was not merely her great, secret triumph.Robert Baratheon was the _enemy_ and they were at war.

 _Her Father_ had conquered Westeros long before Robert’s warhammer had fallen, Cersei had realized upon returning to the capital. By running the kingdom while Aerys II was useless, then mad, _he_ had become the rightful king. Was not he who petitioners saw upon the Iron Throne? Was he not the one who, now, had stepped into Jon Arryn’s shoes and finally done what the old man couldn’t? It was _Tywin Lannister_ who always rescued the fools who sat upon the Iron Throne, so it was his by _right_ and by right she was his firstborn child. Joffrey, born of Lannister blood, was a _true_ Lion and the rightful king.

 _She_ was Queen of Westeros. From this point out her actions were a rightful war against a usurper who had grown above himself and damaged the station he laid claim to. She was a mother defending her child and nothing was more holy than Mother's Wrath. 

It grieved and angered her that her father had been brought into this, but Cersei also understood. Joffrey had made mistakes. He was young. Boys did so. However he was made like she was; made to be strong. With time and his mother to guide him he would prove himself a great king, she knew it. To do that she had to remove Robert, and it was that determination, that _love_ for her child that gave her strength to do what had to be done, no matter how unpleasant.

When Robert returned from his happy little war he would find his life so much _easier_. His Queen would be cowed and pious. His city and his people would be calm and peaceful. The brigands would be gone. All would have fallen to the soft lull of peace and the work of running the kingdom would fall to making decisions on harvests, trade, justice, and shipping. Quiet work, for quiet men, in quiet times would be the order of the day.

Cersei Lannister hated her husband, but she knew him well. Whatever sobriety and strength War had returned to Robert Baratheon, she would steal away with _peace_ . It was boredom that destroyed the man, and she would tear him down into complacency with all her might. The fat king would grow bored and with no tourneys to entertain him, he would return to the ale barrel, the whores, and his hunt. The Queen hadn’t yet decided which one would kill him, but kill him she would, and then _her_ war would be over and her reign just beginning. 

* * *

**Sunspear, Dorne, 298 A.C.**

Ser Morton Wyl was one of the wealthiest heirs in Dorne. Coy smiles from slim beauties, layered in fluttering silks and smokey, drawling voices surrounded him. Dark, sultry eyes pulled at him and husky laughter drew at him from every corner. It was such a normal occurrence on the hunt for a future spouse of wealth and status that Oberyn wouldn’t have noticed it save for one thing.

The, bored, impatient man jittered like the unhappy whippet he resembled, face as twitchy as an annoyed ferret and just as unpleasant in Oberyn’s view. He’d far rather watch any other number of far better looking men, however he was mildly trapped in his current position by his brother’s chair and his wife’s pregnant bulk. Not that he would mention _either_ of these things. The former was no-one’s fault and grieved him. The latter was _his fault_ and he’d just gotten his soulmate and the pleasures of the flesh back after an overlong, annoying journey. His desire to deal with a cold and lonely night was nonexistent. He had _years_ of experience in saying the wrong thing to pregnant women and didn’t intend to repeat past mistakes.

“I told you he looked like an emaciated jackal.”

“You’re being cruel.”

“You’re not disagreeing, darling, are you?”

Doran cast a brief glance in their direction, his face unreadable, and then turned back to where his son and Tayla Wyl held a place of honor. The feast was over and the other festivities had begun. The dancing was in full swing and, in Stony Dornish tradition, the bride had been tossed into the groom’s lap and the groom’s chair was being paraded around the dance floor on the shoulders of several doughty men. He he been able to escape his current position, Oberyn would have tossed away his coat and joined them. He was beginning to suspect he couldn’t push his chair backwards because Doran had had a servant slip a shim under the legs again. If that was the case he was going to simply have to crawl away under the table in a few minutes to prove his patience for being managed into appropriate behavior only went so far.

“You - Oberyn….?”

“Is something wrong?” He gave his wife his full attention, but she was looking across the floor in confusion. 

“No, just… are you seeing what I am?”

Oberyn looked again. There was Morton Wyl, but the look of constipated irritation was gone from his face. What was left was a look of shocked, raw masculine hunger mixed a bit with nearly religious awe. His eyes avidly traced some form up and down several times and Oberyn, curiously, looked around for the source of the man’s helpless lust. What he found was the man’s eyes glued to Lady Walda Frey’s generous form as she giggled and held her hands out for Obella so that his wild sixth-born could twirl in a circle more effectively.

Oberyn was absolutely certain they’d sent the youngest three to bed nearly an hour before, once the Stranger’s Course had ended. He’d done it personally, giving each girl a hug and a kiss and sending them off with Septa Mercy. Clearly there’d been an escape and Oberyn intended to address that… right after this latest amusement was over.

“Darling, I am seeing the future Lord of Wyl hand his wine glass to a highly offended Santagar cousin as if she was a servant and walk rudely through the dancers to approach your lady-in-waiting.”

“That’s what I thought I saw.” Lyarra was beaming. “He’s asking her to dance!”

“Mother save the girl.”

“Oberyn, hush!” Lyarra scolded him. “Walda wants a Dornish husband and has been.. Depressed with her efforts so far.”

Walda was a perfectly lovely person in Oberyn’s opinion but, honestly, she had earned her moniker in the Twins as “Fat” Walda. She was a pretty, but highly plump girl. Dorne, as a rule, favored slender modes of beauty over more voluptuous ones. She also had only a modest dowry that Oberyn had secured from her while otherwise… dealing with the difficulties spawned by House Frey on their journey south. It made sense a foreign girl with such prospects would have a difficult time finding a husband.

“Well, let us go over and _help_ , then.” Oberyn suggested and stood up. Picking up his chair one-handed and backwards he confirmed the presence of shims, shot his brother a dirty look the elder prince ignored handily, and then turned to help his wife out of her seat. 

Oberyn happily turned their walk around the dancefloor into a chance to join in the merriment. Lyarra allowed it, beaming, and he made a point to keep their dancing slower for the sake of their child. That did not mean it had to be boring, however, and it was only when they had stopped moving entirely, his hands wandering quite nicely as his wife was lost in their kiss that she recalled their observers (they got some nice applause, actually) before turning nearly as red as her gown and insisting they waddle over to her friend.

Lady Gwyn was largely serving as Lady Allyria’s assistant, he noticed in passing. The blonde appeared and vanished at the edges of things, speaking with servants or even helping arrange things now and then herself as the beautiful Dayne smoothly drifted about and made small talk. Oberyn decided to have Gwyn take the girls, for he had spied Dorea and Loreza under a table with a platter of purloined cake, back to the nursery. It wouldn’t do to have Gwyn flittering around as the night wore on and more wine was consumed. Not with her looks.

“Lady Walda!” Lyarra called out and the plump blonde turned towards Oberyn’s wife, her expression alight with happiness.

“Oh, Princess, do come meet Ser Morton again! I know you’ve already met him, but really you must _meet_ him. He’s a wonderful dancer and has told me so many things about the Red Mountains and the Marches. I’ve never seen Mountains and these sound so different from the Hills to the west of the Twins!”

“There is no place in Westeros so majestic as the Red Mountains.” Ser Morton announced proudly. “Nor any place in Dorne as fine was Castle Wyl. We are not the largest castle, of course, but our fortifications are the work of thousands of years and have held our valley against even Dragons. We took Orys Baratheon’s hand in the First Dornish War.”

“And worse than a hand from Ser Jon Cafferen.” 

Ser Morton looked rather wounded as Oberyn casually reminded him of the fact that Wyl of Wyl, the ancestor their house always applauded for capturing the first Baratheon, had also been a mad sadist. Castrating men at their own wedding and then raping and selling the bride and her ladies off to the Myrish wasn’t exactly proper, now was it? Nor was it knightly behavior…

“I really - I mean, this is a _wedding_ , Prince Oberyn? Not the best subject for ladies…” Morton scrambled and across the link Lyarra’s exasperation brushed him, encouraging Oberyn in ways she probably hadn’t intended.

“Indeed, I don’t know why you brought him up, Ser Morton.” Oberyn set his face into hard lines of offense and the man scrambled further.

“I was thinking - you see, Wyl is a commanding castle! I just wanted to illustrate it. Well, it has many benefits. Martially, I mean, not that it isn’t a place of great comfort…”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s just _beautiful_ .” Walda gushed in her high pitched voice, patting Wyl’s hand warmly and keeping a firm grip on his arm. “Nor would I really judge the wedding things. I suppose I’d ask how many Cafferens there _were_ . Gods know that someone should have considered doing _something_ with Grandfather Walder after the first fifteen or so sons.”

He was not sure that it was entirely coincidence that Lord Anders Yronwood had taken a large gulp of wine while standing not six paces behind Oberyn at the exact moment Walda said that. Given Walda’s horror as a fine red mist of wine and spit drenched the back of Oberyn’s coat and neck, he was apportioning most of the blame firmly towards Yronwood. It did give him an easy excuse to hand off the coat and enjoy being bare chested at the ball without dealing with either Lyarra or Doran’s looks over the matter. Even more conveniently, Gwyn had appeared at Lyarra’s side almost at precisely that moment.

“Here, Gwyn, please take this and go round up my three youngest snakes and take them to the nursery? It appears they escaped Septa Mercy around the time Obara grew bored and left with Arya and my squire to follow Syrio out for some midnight sparring.”

“Yes, Prince Oberyn.” Gwyn took the coat but was facing Lyarra, her expression confused. “Lyarra, I cannot really see it so good all the way on the other side of the room, but is the woman in the lavender gown wearing a torc like yours on her left wrist?”

“Which woman?”

Oberyn turned to look as his wife did.

“Lord Dalt’s naturalborn sister. The one married to the spice merchant with the missing first finger.”

“Master Holston?” Walda blinked. “Oh, yes, he was absolutely _desperate_ for in invitation. Apparently he gave enough funds to House Dalt to cover their wedding present in order that he and his wife be folded into their party.”

“I hadn’t met them yet.” Lyarra confessed and looked at Oberyn, who nodded.

“I’ve known the man for years. He’s an aggressive social climber. He has two sons and managed to get both knighted. He hopes to wed the eldest to an heiress and the youngest to get a good household position so he is always in Sunspear on days of open court. He gives well to the Faith, though, and I cannot fault the usefulness of such men. Thankfully, with Quentyn stepping up into his duties and his marriage _I_ will have to deal with such mess less and less. My dear nephew is more than welcome to run the public courts again. I have daughters to raise, after all, and a wife to properly-.”

 _“Oberyn_.” Lyarra huffed, but a flare of upset turned aside his idle conversation in concern. “Can we go over? I - the torc she is wearing does look the same, but it shouldn’t. I mean, it cannot.”

“Because a merchant with ships at his command could never possibly do business in the North?”

“These torcs were a set and made by hand, Oberyn, sculpted for a wedding by the Mountain Clans.” Lyarra told him, her tone serious. “The molds are broken after a set of wedding torcs is made and these were done in _gold_ to mark the importance of a marriage into House Stark by the grandmother I’m named after.”

“And?” There was something else in her tone and echoing through the bonds…

Lyarra looked more upset and, as they walked away from Walda as she was drawn into another lively dance by her admirer and Gwyn reluctantly went to gather up Obella, Dorea, and Loreza, Oberyn realized why.

“They were my _aunt’s_ , Oberyn. My father took this one off her wrist at the Tower of Joy. How would a Dornish merchant have the other?”

A thrill went up Oberyn’s spine. Part of it was that hint of battle sense; the feeling of wrongness and warning when something was not as it should be. The other part was disquiet with the subject and his old, but undamped anger at Elia’s shame at that cursed tourney. That said… perhaps the most frustrating thing was a fact Oberyn knew from long acquaintance with the man. 

Rannoc Holston was a Crownlander and sailor. He’d settled in Dorne after the Rebellion when a windfall from a wealthier relative dead in the war left him a fortune sufficient to buy the ship he’d been captaining. A wise marriage to a noble bastard and good investments had followed as the man stubbornly clawed himself up in the world and became one of the wealthiest merchants in Planky Town. There was no way he was near the Red Mountains during the Rebellion to come across some misplaced treasure in the sand, or buy one in case the isolated Kingsguard had hocked the golden trinket for water… Oberyn enjoyed mysteries, but not involving this particular subject.

Lady Rosamund Sand was a few years older than her husband, who as himself a year or two older than Oberyn. Large brown eyes over cinnamon skin and beneath thick, brown hair shot with silver showed her friendly, open looks had aged well. She’d never been pretty, but her good humor and social skills were as much the foundation of her husband’s successes as her dowry and connections. Beside the tall, slender woman Holston himself just looked vague. Neither fat nor thin, neither muscular nor soft, he was just… a rather square, lumpen man of moderate height. His face was open and his features honest and plain. Years in Dorne had tanned him, but he’d never given up the fashion for showy layers of velvets and baggy caps from his youth in King’s Landing. He wore too much, in too many colors, with too many chains and rings around his neck, but his greeting was humble and effusive.

“Prince Oberyn, Princess Lyarra, I am beyond honored to speak with you at this fine event. To see the Young Prince so well married and so happily wed! His delight all but pours from him every moment you see his handsome face!”

Quentyn was grimacing as, even after they really should have stopped, the revelers continued to cart him and his fiance about on the chair. They were on their twenty-second circle of the dance floor. His expression suggested that very soon someone was getting booted in the ear and he was using their shoulder as a stepladder to disembark with his soon-to-be-bride. It was not a particularly good look for Quentyn’s strong and sometimes dour features.

“I’m simply glad that they seem so happy. My own marriage has been so blessed, I wouldn’t wish anything less on any couple.” Lady Rosamund saved her husband from his own posturing and Oberyn bowed, sweeping a hand forward to draw hers out for a kiss and pass it to his wife to better study the line of bracelets creeping up her arm.

Lyarra gave no outward sign of upset, but it was very clear that she was unhappy. He could feel her confusion through their bond and slid an arm around her back, bracing her and himself further. He caught his brother’s eye across the room and was pleased when, after the barest moment, Doran silently sent Daemon Sand in their direction. Something about this… disturbed him, and if Lyarra would only silently release the lady’s hand, he had no issues with speaking his mind.

“What a lovely torc, Lady Rosamund, where did you get it?”

Her expression lit up as her hand went and gently circled the snarling wolf’s heads that capped each end of the golden piece.

“It was a betrothal gift. The very first that my husband gave me.”

“Indeed, wherever did you get it, Master Holston?”

The man’s expression was positively delighted as he responded with ease.

“Oh, I got it from a jeweler in King’s Landing. I’m afraid I cannot claim it was any inspired purchase. He had a whole table of them, molded just the same. Most were copper or bronze and a few silver. I bought the only gold, dear as it was to me at the time. I couldn’t offer anything less to such a fine lady as my own.”

“What an amazing coincidence.” Lyarra finally offered, holding out her own wrist. “My father provided the same thing for part of my own dowry.”

Lady Rosamund’s eyes widened and she beamed. Quickly she launched into a happy little story about how she’d been offered the bracelet during the first days of their courtship. It wasn’t her who Oberyn was watching, whoever, nor did he believe his wife was, either. For all that Lyarra’s eyes were on the woman Oberyn _felt_ her tense at the exact same moment he noticed that, beneath his tan, Rannoc Holston had paled and began to twist the large agate ring on his first finger about in a nervous, but brief gesture.

“It _is_ quite a coincidence!” Holston blustered, dropping his hands and smiling. “To think, all those years ago a humble man such as myself gave my lady a gift fit for a princess!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin Lannister puts some plans in motion. House Martell enjoys wholesome family bonding and vengeance. These things need not be kept separate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU Madrigal_in_training for continuing to beta this fic so it makes sense. It would not exist without you. Also, thank you again to my readers. Your comments are wonderful and I couldn't resist paying homage to some of your guesses in the dialog. :D

**The Red Keep, King’s Landing, Crownlands 298 A.C.**

Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, pushed the watercress soup away from him. He had no appetite for it, or heartier fare, and the kitchens’ attempts to somehow improve his appetite were getting both desperate and annoying. There were more important matters to attend to than his stomach.

“You are certain?”

The nervous young acolyte shifted and nodded. 

“Yes, my lord. The Guild is holding a general vote of all of its leadership. They chose to meet at the big guild hall near Pennydell.”

“The copper mines there have recently seen new veins discovered on difficult ground. What makes you certain this isn’t merely a large gathering deciding the best course of action to proceed in a dangerous new delving?”

“If it was something of the sort, my lord, I would have expected Guild Master Tollen Hillson as well as the Regional and Local leaders, but a larger contingent of sappers and engineers. Including training groups learning on the job. Instead this is just a great showing of leadership.”

Tywin seethed silently, pushing back against the cold uncertainty in his gut. Even had the soup been tolerable, he’d have no stomach for it now. Standing up, leaning upon his cane he walked over to the slight young man to look down at him. He was clearly deeply nervous. Given what he was involving himself in, well, it wasn’t surprising. 

“Edwyn Hill.” The Old Lion mused, narrowing his eyes. “You’re Lord Myatt’s bastard, correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If I recall, your father had originally wished you to go to the Citadel.”

“It was his intention, my lord, before my Lord Father died and my half-brother took the seat.”

“The Faith is rather a cheaper occupation for a bastard these days.” Tywin reflected and turned towards the window. “Have you anything else to add?”

“I have exact dates and as many faces as I recognized from the gathering, my lord.”

Tywin held out his hand and received the neatly folded square of parchment.

“House Lannister pays its debts, Edwyn Hill, and we appreciate your loyalty. There is a caravan leaving for Old Town and included in it are two members of the Grand Maester’s Household who are returning to the Citadel. My steward shall see you have a recommendation from the Grand Maester and coin enough to make entry into the ranks of those training for their chains there, as your father intended.”

Gratitude washed over the boy’s face and the young man quickly bowed his way out of the room. Tywin let him before returning to his seat and unfolding the parchment he’d been passed. He read over the list twice before casting it into the fire, staring after it in the flames.

He’d lived his whole life in a war against shame. His father had shamed their house, had shamed Tywin’s mother by publicly keeping low women in their home after her death, had shamed his daughter in an unworthy marriage, had shamed them _all_ . Lord Tytos had made House Lannister so weak that even the least knight of the Westerlands had felt free to mock them. _He_ had put a stop to that, but unlike his daughter’s foolish preconceptions Lord Tywin knew he had not done it alone.

Tywin had always had Kevan to help him. His brother was as fine a knight and as perfect a brother as could be asked for. Never in their lives had Kevan Lannister been asked anything by his brother he wouldn’t or couldn’t do, and Tywin’s appreciation and _loyalty_ for that ran deep. Even Tygett and Gerion, for all the first’s foolish temper and the latter's simple foolishness they had been good brothers.

It wasn’t his brothers, however, who had frightened the banners into instant cooperation. Yes, the Tarbecks and the Raynes had resisted and been crushed, but the others had not. Tywin was proud that no few of those men had immediately known to give the Lions their due as soon as he had spoken to them, but he knew that many others had not merely been motivated by their own intelligence to recognize that Tywin himself would tolerate no more disrespect of House Lannister.

No sooner had he gotten his father to prepare a writ to the Guild Master granting Tywin the authority of the acting lord then the Miner’s Guild of the Westerlands had come to _him_ for direction. They’d _liked_ his father, but it was _Tywin_ who they’d given their respect and trust. They’d come to him and told him that he had the full backing of the Guild. They’d told him that they would, as their oaths demanded, follow any order. What mattered more was that they had said they would do so _gladly_. They were there for the Lannisters as House Lannister had been there for them and Tywin had gloried in it.

A simple display was all it had taken in most cases. Few were foolish enough to ignore the warning when the miners wore red. Tywin recalled how Genna had _laughed_ when she heard. He could still see Tygett’s shocked smile and Kevan shaking his head in admiring shock. It was such a _little thing_ after all. One day, on their way to the mines… they just wore red. All of them. Every miner in the Westerlands had marched to the mines in the heavy red tunics that each was required to own. Tunics that every man, woman, and child in the Westerlands knew the Guild wore when they marched to war. 

Cersei would never understand the grace of such a gesture. His daughter went through life wielding the same warhammer in matters of courtesy her lackwit husband took into battle. She had no understanding of how one had to balance carefully between use of force, threat of force, and actively helping one’s people. Enemies were dangerous, no matter how foolish. Allies were useful, no matter how small. Loyalty, however, was to be _prized_ and had to be carefully cultivated if you wished it to cleave to you when you needed it most.

_Seventeen million_ gold dragons sat in the Winter Fund. Three short winters and the longest summer Tywin had never knew stretched out before them and the Guild never took a bent copper or a single gem from the Winter Fund save for winter preparations. It was a fanatical loyalty. An insistence that if they, even once, began to offer loans or other measures from the Winter Fund then it would lead to a tide of misuse. So a fortune equivalent to _seventeen million gold dragons_ sat in the great vaults in the bowels of Casterly Rock beneath Tywin Lannister’s feet in silver, gold, and precious gems.

He’d spent his whole life fighting against shame, but he still felt it. He didn’t doubt himself or his actions. Tywin knew he’d had no choice. He still felt the bite of it nipping at the heels of his thoughts even as he carefully loosened the white-knuckled grip he’d taken around the arms of his chair and turned his gaze away from where it had fixed upon the flickering red coals sitting in his fireplace. He had _no choice_. House Lannister’s enemies were too eager to see their fall. The Dornish sat like vultures, too weak to prey upon the strong but waiting for the first sign that he or the Crown or House Lannister stumbled. The Tyrells were opportunists and always had been and the Tullys no better. Neither supported anyone unless there was something of great value in it for them.

If merely _one thing_ had been different Tywin wouldn’t have needed to endure the silent shame of having become no better than a thief. _An_ _embezzler_. Had Houses Reyne and Tarbeck paid back what was due to their liege lord, it would have been different. Had Balon Greyjoy not rebelled then he would not have needed to rebuild that Lannister fleet and so much of the city so quickly and at such a heavy price. Had Aerys II _for once_ paid his debts and offered the funds back that Tywin had given to pay what Jaehaerys II owed the Iron Bank, Tywin knew he could have managed. If _he_ had been Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon he would never have allowed the reckless fiscal policy that had left the Crown all but insolvent. Even with the man’s endless, heedless spending on tourneys and his daughter’s profligate ways Tywin could have supported House Lannister’s image and the Crown as long as the man hadn’t allowed the system of taxation to crumble.

One-million-eight-hundred-thirty-two-thousand gold dragons. No doubt a princely sum, but House Lannister could have absorbed it over the course of time. The fact was, however, that House Lannister could _not_ absorb a total of nearly _nine million_ gold dragons over the course of fifty years. Worse yet, more than half of that sum had been the product of the last _ten_. It couldn’t be done and with the weight of the Plague’s cost to them atop everything else? He refused to owe Doran Martell anything, but paying his debts for the goats had been a great expense when another could not be aforded...

_“No choice.”_

Tywin swallowed with a dry throat and stood again to pour himself a cup of wine from the carafe on the sideboard. He cut it generously with water. He’d done what he had to do, as he _always did_ for the good of his family and the legacy of his House. Now he would have to act again and it left a bitter taste in his mouth, as did the words he’d spoken to his empty solar.

If the Guild had called such a council there was but one reason. They were preparing to audit the Winterfund. He’d known that there was some unhappiness and perhaps even suspicion when Guild Master Tollen had arrived. Tywin had done what he had to do and put the man off. He would open the Winter Fund and the buying in of grain and goods would begin when he was back at the Rock. It was a delaying tactic and as he’d left Tywin had wondered if they both knew it. Now he was sure.

There was a scratch upon the door. 

“Enter.”

“Lord Leo Lefford, Master of Coin!” The knight announced smartly before closing the door and returning to his post.

“Lord Tywin, how may I be of service?” 

Tywin turned and took in the man’s appearance. He was some four years older than Tywin himself with thick hair that was an equal mix of sandy and gray. He hid a weak chin with a thick gray beard, but otherwise had the sharp features one would expect of a house that was distant kin to the Lannisters. He was an obedient, dutiful bannerman.

_How it galled to be forced into such action…_

“Lord Lefford, please, sit down.” Tywin gestured to the two chairs opposite one another at the fire and poured a glass of wine. “I would have our speech be truly private.”

“How may I be of service?”

“You ever are.” Tywin sipped his own watered wine and sat. “I was thinking more of duty rather than service. House Lefford has long guarded entrance into the Westerlands from Goldentooth.”

“And long shall we remain, my lord, guarding our pass and reminding the Riverlands where our borders truly lay!” Lefford smiled, pleased with the praise before his mind leapt forward and the smile vanished in a somber frown. He was not a foolish man. “You fear insecurity in the realm?”

“I fear the actions of the foolish who do not recognize the consequences of their ambitions.” Tywin replied evenly and the other man winced and took a deep swig of wine before casting a nervous look at his Lord Paramount.

“My lord, would I be too forward to assume that this may have to do with matters of finance?”

Tywin gestured for him to go on and Lord Lefford’s relief was clear as he spoke.

“ _Thank you_ , my Lord.”

“You are welcome.”

“I am ever grateful for the honor of being appointed as Master of Coin to His Grace, the King.” Lefford’s words all but tripped over themselves as he leaned forward. “I am also grateful your son left the books in such fine shape. Whatever drove him away from the task, he did a fine job of chasing down and verifying the Crown’s debts… which brings me back to my fears.”

“Those being?” Tywin frowned and for a moment wondered if Lefford was actually intelligent enough to have worked out the true danger.

“The Crown’s finances are salvageable, my Lord, but only in the most basic sense!” Lefford fretted before going on.

“The loans taken in from Myr and Lys that I’ve seen that the Crown has paid off were the worst of the lot, as the rates of insurance were usurious in the worst way. However, the loans that remain… The Faith is not secure enough right now to push for direct repayment, but the Tyrells _are_ and the Crown simply cannot afford to pay _anything_ but what they owe the Iron Bank on the plan I’ve worked out!” 

Lefford’s distress was clear. Tywin hoped to use it. However, he had to be sure he did not know _too_ much.

“That is _all_?”

Lefford looked terribly pained but relaxed slightly, his expression one of worried hope.

“That is… I realize that the Crown owes no-one such a debt as it does yourself and your House, Lord Tywin, but I’m sure you can see that repayment immediately is out of the question. It shall have to fall to your grandson to make amends in time given the Crown’s precarious situation.” He looked relieved when Tywin nodded. “It is a great blessing to the peace of the realm that the Westerlands can absorb such.”

Tywin noted that the charade remained. Even in the Westerlands where all knew how the system of mineral rights worked, none knew exactly how much money was taken in the Lion’s Share save the Guild. Figures were kept within the guild, but under normal circumstances no House would see the _full_ figures but House Lannister. All could request they see beyond their own house’s production from the Guild, but if they did so the Guild would inform House Lannister, and to check up on their Liege Lord’s profits was considered _insulting_. None would insult House Lannister without fear of reprisal, and Lord Lefford had not. 

“For the time being and for the sake of Westeros, I shall not call in the debts owed me.” Tywin affirmed, then frowned. “As such, what is your particular concern?”

“I am not sure I can maintain the Crown’s current budget when the King returns.” 

“I see.”

“I am sure you do, my lord, and I cannot tell you the relief it was when I discovered that you had seen the wisdom of restructuring the Queen’s budget and putting her expenditures under the purview of her husband’s purse and in such a modest way.”

“My daughter has made great progress in her recovery.”

Tywin meant every word, for once. Cersei’s mind had been badly stressed and her behavior foolish beyond words. He blamed, however, years of being married to an unworthy man, having lost her mother too young, and his own years away from Casterly Rock in Aerys’ service. With no solace to be found from the deaths of her children, her inability to accept that her eldest was the disaster he had become, and a useless, abusive oaf as a husband was it any surprise she’d suffered and lashed out in such a mindless way? Tywin felt it was not and only regretted not doing something sooner. Control had to be _taught_ and he now recognized he had not had those he needed to present to teach it to his daughter. If the Mother House had succeeded where so much time and experience had failed, he was grateful for the perspective it seemed to have granted her, though he would watch closely.

“I am pleased that the Queen has returned to us of more modest tastes and a calmer disposition.”

Tywin didn’t doubt that it wasn’t a religious epiphany that had caused Cersei’s change in behavior. Instead he was happier to note it seemed to be a genuine political understanding of her position’s fragility. She’d agreed that she must get with child. She’d also agreed that Robert Baratheon must be _managed_ rather than antagonized. At least until such a time as Cersei’s own position was secure. Tywin had been relieved to have had _fruitful_ discussions with his daughter for the first time in entirely too long. 

“My concern is the _king_ .” Lefford went on. “He dislikes conflict that isn’t of arms and armor and putting the realm’s tax system back in line shall cause it. Many houses who were sorely put upon for their Loyalist sentiments are now quieter as we’ve removed the greater weight from them, but there were _so many_ houses in the Stormlands, Vale, and Riverlands who were paying barely a pittance - and then there are the Florents and a few of their allies in the Reach! Thankfully they never spread word of their own tax largess to the rest of the Tyrell’s realm and the North and Westerlands nobles were not permitted to pursue the same unwise course or the Crown might be hopelessly insolvent!”

“Are you seeking those taxes that are in arrears, Lord Lefford?”

“I am, and that is where I see no small contention. They will maintain the King _forgave_ those taxes rather than postponed them, and I have no proof either way. These banners will likely seek to argue their case before the King. The Iron Throne cannot support division. The Crown _needs_ to recoup its losses and move on!”

“If that is so, we may have the perfect means to distract the King.” Tywin replied. “He is easily influenced by his temper. If he feels they are delivering an insult to him that can be used to keep him in his current, more frugal, mindset. There are also the brigands. The Bloody Mummers are no more in the Crownlands, but thanks to the Plague brigandage has become a greater problem all over the realm than it has been in many years.”

“Quite, and the King is well-suited to stop it.” Lefford relaxed yet again, nodding. “As always, my lord, you reassure me. I thank you for it.”

Lefford was tightfisted. He was inclined to feud with those he thought insulted him. He was also a good and honest bannerman. He’d repaid what loans he’d taken from Tywin’s father in his younger days as Lord of Goldentooth and served them loyalty ever since. Doing what was needed, what he _must_ , put a vile taste in Tywin’s mouth as he began to speak again.

“In light of the instability, however, I must ask if you intend to marry again soon.” Tywin sipped at his own wine as he went on. “You will, of course, choose a girl of the Westerlands.”

“Oh, of course, I never really held with marrying _outside_. Not to insult the Queen’s marriage, of course. As your daughter she was meant for different things.”

“Quite.” Tywin nodded once toward the window. “In light of the King’s return being likely days away, however, and the work that must be done I must urge you to return to Golden Tooth and wed quickly. I cannot spare you long and a new wife can easily be brought back to the capital with you.”

“That’s true.” Leo Lefford looked greatly complimented by the idea he was _necessary_ to Tywin Lannister. “I’ve even got a lady in mind. Not the prettiest, but a very fine dowry. It needs only a bit more correspondence and a wedding to settle things. I have your leave to return to Goldentooth briefly, my lord?”

“Yes, and the sooner the better.” Tywin agreed and all that was left was the usual pleasantries as the other man took his leave.

Taking out a fine piece of parchment. A very plain letter was written on it to his private steward at the Rock. An old man, nearly thirty-years Tywin’s senior he was utterly loyal to his Lord in a way Tywin trusted no-one else to be. Not that there were not those he truly trusted beyond the man - Kevan, Genna, maybe one other - but he was one of but a handful who he trusted to do what he said _no matter what that was_. Kevan had never gainsaid him, but he had also never asked his brother anything beyond what he knew his limits would be. Genna loved to argue in general. It was the old steward who had organized the assistance in removing funds from the Winter Fund. He would also handle the details of arranging this unpleasant matter for the good of House Lannister, little as Tywin liked it.

As Tywin retrieved his cane to personally take the letter to the ravenry and observe its sending he noted with some dry amusement that it was fortunate he had given up on his plans to attempt to pacify the Martells in any way. Not only was it beneath him, but had he done so he would have been without a valuable pawn. Ser Gregor Clegane had his uses.

* * *

**Sunspear, Dorne, 298 A.C., Mid-Morning**

“Subtlety is not always needful, brother.”

“Bestill my heart, I’ve heard the impossible! Prince Doran Martell admits that you don’t have to have a fifty-seven-step, clandestine plan to accomplish even mundane activities!”

“On the contrary, Oberyn, I’ve long appreciated unsubtle things. I have yet to revoke _your_ allowance, after all.”

“Well, it is nice to know you do not consider me _entirely_ useless. It doesn’t answer why _I_ am here and not out being unsubtle on your orders.”

Oberyn felt a flare of real discomfort from across the bond he shared with his soulmate and turned to regard his wife. Lyarra sat comfortably on a settee behind him. Her hair drawn back into a loose braid bound at intervals with white ribbon. She looked lovely in a dress of pleated white linen, it’s low v-neck created by the tight gathers over each shoulder, and then again by a geometric ribbon patterned in blue and gold under her bust. She also looked distinctly awkward, her expression blank and he felt a flare of irritation of his own. He brushed it off with a crooked smile.

“Darling, you needn’t fear. This minor dispute doesn’t even qualify as an argument by Martell standards.”

“Indeed, I haven’t even had him clapped in irons yet.” 

Oberyn shot his brother a fierce look and got an expression of mild, unsurprised annoyance in return. Just to thwart expectations, Oberyn went back to the settee and sprawled beside his wife, curling an arm around her shoulders and idly tapping her belly with the fingers of his other hand to see if he could inspire a kick. Lyarra swatted his fingers and gave him a sharp look.

“This is _not_ a good time to play with the baby.”

“Indeed, my apologies, Princess Lyarra, as my generation indulged _our_ youngest far too much.”

“On the contrary, our mother and the rest of the family merely realized the greatness I possessed young and showed their appreciation early and continuously, as is proper.” Oberyn shot back, but pressed an apologetic kiss to his wife’s brow. “Wife, this matter pertains most directly to _you_ . What say you? Should _your husband and champion_ not have been called upon for this?

“Perhaps, strictly speaking, it was your right. However, I would rather know exactly what is _going on_ before I take offense at Prince Doran’s actions.” Lyarra’s moderate, measured response earned a huff from Oberyn, but he permitted a nod and turned towards his brother expectantly.

It had been a night and day since the strange occurrence at the welcoming ball for Quentyn and his bride. Lyarra had insisted on not distracting from Lady Tayla’s marriage for personal reasons and Doran had agreed for political reasons. Quentyn’s marriage to a wealthy and noble Dornishwoman was important to House Martell after the disaster that was Doran’s marriage to a foreign woman and Arianne’s sad fate with Gerold Dayne. As such, the resolution was delayed.

Leave it to his brother, Oberyn thought, to pile social duties upon his _wild little brother_ while setting everything into motion on his own. It was a frustration that had never quite left him despite all of their many years working together. Even though Oberyn cherished his place as Doran’s right hand in many ways, it burrowed beneath his skin like a sand mite that even after all this time the right hand had no idea what the left hand was doing. Lyarra had a point, however, beginning the same old argument did him no good.

“As I said, it is not a matter that requires incredible subtlety, given Rannoc Holston’s limited rank and clout.” Doran repeated as he sat calmly in his wheeled chair. Oberyn felt further thwarted in his anger by a helpless regret that his brother’s condition was such that, after moons of separation from the healing pools of the Water Gardens, he truly was confined to such. It was wrong to be so angered at his brother given what Doran had to endure, yet, at the same time he felt he had the right to be insulted by how little he often knew of what went on around him. Doran kept his secrets too close.

“Then what does it require?” 

Oberyn smiled fiercely at his wife’s bluntness. Stark blood had its uses. The fact that she said it so earnestly his brother often dealt her less deflection was also a benefit. It didn’t have _much_ effect on Doran and he doubted it made him say one more more than he would have. Oberyn sometimes suspected that it prompted him to say those few words _faster_ , however, and with less sarcasm. Oberyn preferred to be the one offering sarcasm to those around him, thank you.

“Lady Rosamund Sand is Ser Symon Santagar’s sister, the eldest child of his own father, Ser Marcus Santagar. She is his favorite sibling, and I had no wish to create bad blood there.”

Realization hit and Oberyn leaned forward.

“That is why he withdrew from the joust.”

Today, while a great fair played out beneath them on the sands below the Shadow City and in its narrow, winding streets, there was no jousting. There were many other entertainments, and when the sun began to set the nobility would descend to enjoy them and there would be individual contests of strength and skill amongst the knights of Dorne. The next day that Joust would occur and the Melee the day after, closing the festivities. 

Doran nodded and Oberyn frowned, choosing his next words more carefully. 

“The Knight of Spotswood has been… most sensitive since his daughter and heir became entangled in what occurred before.”

“She is entangled no longer.”

“All of Dorne is aware of that, brother.”

“I am not.” Lyarra frowned and leaned forward, looking at both of them. “What happened?”

Oberyn, for all his annoyance, prepared to answer for his brother. He knew she could sense his pain, anger, and unease given she reached out and curled her and around his wrist and the Mark painted there. He returned the gesture, but in that brief moment where he ordered his thoughts, his brother spoke instead. As usual, Doran chose to pay the cost himself and Oberyn frowned as his brother spoke.

“When my daughter Arianne attempted to use the confusion of the Plague to gain more independence, perhaps even make a bid for the Sunchair due to my failures as her father, her plans went quickly awry. She was betrayed by her closest confidant; Ser Gerold Dayne.” Doran explained. “That much you know, I believe.”

“Lady Allyria explained what Oberyn did not, my Prince.” Lyarra agreed and Doran nodded.

“Lady Sylva Santagar is the eldest of Ser Symon’s three daughters and was his heiress. She was much involved in Arianne’s attempt to flee.” Oberyn would not allow his brother to go on further in this vein, however, knowing what it cost him to speak of his daughter. He had lost Tyene as well that year, though for different reasons. “Nymeria was involved as well, but it was Lady Sylva who was much involved in distracting Arianne’s guards to allow them to leave Sunspear as they did. Her father married her outside of Dorne as a result, to an old man in the Stormlands. By doing so he removed her from the succession for Spotswood in favor of her younger sister, and visited a punishment on her fiercer than the banishment from court my brother offered.”

“The Knight of Spotswood is most sensitive in regards to his honor.” 

“Which is why this must be handled carefully.” Lyarra nodded, now looking worried as she turned the golden torc around her wrist, the two snarling direwolf heads that capped it gleaming in the light softly illuminating the reception room they occupied.

Oberyn had noted with some hurt that she’d kept the heavy bracelet near her since she’d seen its mate so unexpectedly. The gift had meant a great deal to her, for it was obvious proof of her Stark blood. A line and a name much denied her for most of her life under the weight of the name, Snow. 

“It means that Lady Rosamund’s honor cannot be lightly questioned.” Doran agreed calmly and then reached down, removing his hands from beneath the light silk blanket cast over his legs as he gripped the iron rims of his chair’s wheels and turned it slightly away from them. “Fortunately, there is no evidence whatsoever of any foul play or even knowledge thereof on her part. Ser Symon has been most cooperative and will continue to be so now that his sister’s safety in his custody in assured.”

“And her husband?”

“Master Rannoc Holston has been enjoying silent reflection in our dungeons since four hours hence. His grown sons are in more comfortable confinement as they have little to add, being five and eight name days old during the Rebellion.” Doran turned his head just slightly to meet his brother’s eyes and Oberyn stood in one smooth motion as his brother’s manner remained precisely the same, his voice changed not a whit, but his own black eyes glittered dangerously back at Oberyn’s as he went on. “Ser Manfrey, our cousin, has been good enough to have left last night with an appropriate force to bring us all available papers and objects of interest from his manse in Planky Town. Prince Oberyn, I would have you take a force of men of your choosing to his home in the Shadow City as well and do the same.”

“As my Prince wills.” Oberyn smiled sharply and turned, then thought again. “Before I go, perhaps I might devote a moment or two of attention to Master Holston’s water ration? There are a number of additives and _improvements_ I might make tastelessly to it that would serve as encouragement for his tongue, especially after hours alone and in the dark.”

“A good idea, brother. Might Nymeria attend to the same?”

“She has the skill.” Oberyn grinned with pride in his daughter, though lamented a lost chance for personal action. “I shall take my leave then.”

“Wait.” Lyarra heaved herself up from her seat on the settee and reached out for Oberyn to steady her, which he did gladly only to find a hard, quick kiss pressed upon his lips. “Be careful.”

“Always, however I fail to see great danger to be found from an upstart merchant.”

“Most would say there is nothing safer than a wedding as well, but my uncle and aunt both left the North to attend one and were never seen again.” Lyarra’s expression darkened and she looked at where Ghost stood at the edge of the room, padding back and forth to look out the window or drift over to stand on guard at the door beside Captain Hotah. “I have a… a forbidding feeling about this.”

“Then I shall see I am properly guarded.” Oberyn kissed her again and left with a nod for his brother as Lyarra realized what she meant and rolled her eyes. “Ghost may stay here, however.”

* * *

**Sunspear, Dorne, 298 A.C., Late Morning**

Arya was most excited but tried not to be. Oberyn and the knights who had come with him were calm and smooth in a way she wanted to pack up in a sack and throw over her shoulder and lug into her future like a pirate’s stolen loot. That confidence was something she hungered for and she was sure she would have one day. She was Syrio’s _best_ pupil.

“Come here and be tall, Edric!”

Arya had _not_ liked Prince Oberyn’s squire when she met him. His sister, Lady Allyria, was alright. She was strict and a little too _pretty_ and ladylike in the way that Sansa always wanted to be, but Arya had quickly learned that wasn’t all she was. Lady Allyria didn’t fight with a sword, but she was perfectly nice to those who did and she was fiercely protective of her family. It just so happened that all the family she had left was Edric.

Arya wouldn’t call him Ned. It was too strange. It was also another thing that made her dislike him when she first met him. Ned was _her_ father’s name and as great as the adventure of going to Dorne was, Arya had been upset to realize how much she missed her family and Winterfell. Edric Dayne, who everyone else called Ned just seemed to make it worse.

Arya had been fairly sure that Edric Dayne made _everything_ worse. She’d been sure she could prove she could be Syrio’s student and be Prince Oberyn’s squire as well, but he wouldn’t have it. Looking back Arya could admit she didn’t have time. She still had her regular lessons as well as everything Syrio was teaching her and she wouldn’t have given up Syrio’s lessons for _anything_ . So _maybe_ it was alright for Edric to polish Oberyn’s armor and take care of his horses and things since she had better things to do.

She’d been just plain mad when he began following her all over the place. Yes, Lyarra had told her that _she’d started it_ because of those first few pranks. It wasn’t like they were bad or anything! She’d just borrowed Gwyn’s spiders to fill his boots and rearranged all the things in his desk so the drawers were upside-down and his things would fall out. Well, and that thing with the scorpion on the string, the chamberpot, and the glue. 

_None_ of it had worked at all like Arya had intended! Edric wasn’t afraid of spiders like Robb was. He didn’t even just dislike bugs like most people did! The desk had ended up being Lady Allyria’s and Arya had first had to write out a letter of apology to Lady Allyria in her best calligraphy because Lyarra said to, then _three whole poems_ for Oberyn, and finally Lady Allyria had set her down and made her _sew_ with her while they talked.

The talking wasn’t so bad. She’d learned a lot about how _not_ to involve a lot of people in your pranks. Obella had been fine; she never told on you. Loreza and Dorea were too little, though, and had both told their papa exactly what she’d done just because Oberyn had _asked_. 

None of that was the real problem. Arya had been _utterly confused_ and not a little vexed to find that the pretty boy wasn’t at all bothered by her pranks. Instead his reaction had been entirely surprising.

_“I’ve never played a prank before.”_ Just two years older than her and with the biggest eyes, more violet than blue, he’d fixed his gaze on her with sincere admiration as he spoke to her not long after she’d escaped Allyria’s sewing lesson. _“I couldn’t. I was father’s only son and he worked very hard to keep me safe. I’m Lord Dayne now and too many people depend on me for me to risk something like that. I could shame my house.”_

Arya had assumed he’d been insulting her at first.

_“What else have you done?”_

Then she’d realized with some shock that he was _impressed_. Looking up at the straight, even lines of his face and the soft way that his stupid, platinum hair flopped all around his dumb eyes hadn’t been good at all. It had made her belly feel funny and Arya Stark wasn’t having it! 

She’d decided that she would get rid of Edric Dayne the proper way; by whipping him but good! Lia and Obella had both agreed and Arya had decided it was just the right plan. Elia Sand was two years younger than Lyarra and nearly four years older than Arya. She was also one of the best jousters that Arya had ever seen! Obella had gotten good enough that Obara was letting her little sister join her lessons to learn how to use a real mace even though she was Bran’s age! Arya had felt that if they’d both agreed it had to be a good plan.

Syrio had agreed to monitor their match and Arya’s only disappointment is that she hadn’t been allowed to use Needle. The sword Lyarra had given her was _wonderful_ , but Syrio had told her that she only got to use it when he said so. She wasn’t going to argue with her teacher so she’d taken up her wooden practice sword _sure_ of victory. She was learning from the First Sword of Braavos! He’d said she was his _best pupil!_

_“You are indeed my best pupil, Arya, but take this as a lesson. Best that you are, you have been the best for far less time than your opponent has been good.”_

Edric Dayne, Arya had decided afterward, was _stupidly_ tall for his age. He also had a stupid smile and stupid pretty-eyes. In fact, he was just stupid all over! Despite those eyes and floppy hair and general stupidity Edric Dayne had been given a practice sword and had real knights teaching him to use it since he’d been learning to walk. He might not have been the best or had the most natural talent, but Edric Dayne _always_ tried his hardest whenever he tried to do something. That included fighting a sparring match with Arya and _winning_ because Syrio was right and Arya had been too confident.

She’d won the next match, though! Then she’d won the third one. He’d won the fourth, though, and the seventh, and the eighth. She’d almost even forgiven him for getting his own lessons with Syrio after that. Because it was her swordmaster’s right to take more students if he wanted to. He _did_ want to get paid and that was fair! Besides, Edric never fought her any differently because she was a girl even if he did still insist on opening doors for her and getting her plates when they were doing something fancy with the court with Lyarra. Of course, Edric _could_ have moved faster when she called for him…

“Edric Dayne! Stop being a slow-arse and get over here!”

“Sorry, my lady!” 

Edric ran into the room, a soft smile on his face. Ser Rowan and Ser Alcyon came with him. Both were tall, sturdy men a bit older than Jory and were knights of Lord Dayne’s household. That was another thing that… Arya would admit was a little… wasn’t _bad_ about Edric. He was already a _lord_ so he had his own sworn _knights_ even if he was a squire. If _she_ had sworn knights, though, she’d have gone to fight bandits in the deserts or pirates in the Stepstones or something!

Nymeria scratched at the carpet hanging against one wall, it’s bright patterns glaring in the whitewashed room. Both of Edric’s knights gave her a wide berth and paused upon coming into the room rather than squeeze between the growing direwolf, the table, and the mantle. Edric, however, fearlessly walked by Nymeria, brushing against her and patting her between the shoulders as he passed. Nymeria stopped to snuffle at his pale lavender cloak as he moved by, but otherwise was unbothered by his presence. That was another thing Arya decided made Edric decent enough company. If her direwolf liked him, she had to, didn’t she? It wasn’t her fault!

“I’m not your lady.” Arya huffed and when she heard Ser Alcyon snort she turned and looked back at the sandy blonde knight. He just smiled at her like he knew something. She turned into a proper glare and then huffed out a breath. “Nymeria, Prince Oberyn said no breaking things. Stop scratching the wall.”

Nymeria started licking it instead.

“How many I help, Lady Arya.”

“I’m not _a_ lady either!” She pointed up to the top of the tall cabinet. “I can’t reach those baskets. I want to see what’s in them! Has Oberyn found anything/”

“Prince Oberyn is collecting all of the books and paperwork from the other rooms, he’ll read it when he gets back to Sunspear with our Prince and Princess Lyarra, I’m sure.” Edric stepped closer to the cabinet and stretched upwards, reaching out with his fingers and frowning, then going on the tips of his toes. “I’m too short.”

Arya turned back towards the older knights but as she did Prince Oberyn’s voice called out for a hammer. Apparently he wanted into a locked chest. Ser Alycon bowed and took his leave. Ser Rowan went to step forward, but when Nymeria turned around and butted her head against Arya’s hip he stopped, his path blocked by the bulk of Arya’s partner.

“I have an idea.” Edric announced.

“It better not be like the idea you had earlier!” Arya frowned. “Elia’s my friend and she’s jousting for _real_ not against the rings. If I gave anyone my favor it would be her. Not that I’m going to do that, because giving favors is _stupid_. Next year I’ll rid the rings myself!”

Edric had the gall to look sad, but rallied with a little smile. Arya waited for him to say something but he just had to be _quiet_ again. She glared at him as he stood there like an idiot with his fingers laced together in a cup by his bent knee for a full ten or twelve seconds before she realized what he was doing. One grin later and she’d stepped into his hand and then scrambled up onto his shoulders. It was a little wobbly, but with his hands on her knees they stayed in place.

She could almost _hear_ Septa Mordane shrieking and her mother’s upset noise at her doing it, but that was alright! Sansa had written her a really nice letter for once and admitted she’d been _right_ about the Septa being awful! Mind you, Arya’d just thought she’d been awful in general and not a spy, but that was all the same in the end. Arya had been _right_ and perfect Lady Sansa had admitted it. She’d also added the bloody knife border to the tapestry she made Ser Domeric _and_ asked for her to find a good poem and make a scroll for him the same way as a present. She’d even said Arya’s calligraphy was better than her own!

Arya’s mother had liked her calligraphy a lot too. Arya had a half-finished poem for her she’d picked out to send next time a raven left for the North. It felt strange and… nice to have letters from Mother that told her how proud she was of her. She didn’t think her mother would even mind about her standing on Edric’s shoulders because she wasn’t really in a dress. She was in a _suit_ from the Red Mountains. Edric’s sister wore then a lot, so Arya had been shocked and delighted to discover that she could wear _pants_ at court in Dorne. Even to fancy balls and the like!

The suit was made out of snug pants. Sometimes they were made of really soft buckskin for riding. Other times they were made of cotton, linen, or silk. She was wearing a pair that were dark gray cotton today and went halfway down her calves over her leather sandals. Over that she wore the top half of the suit. Rather like a tunic or a coat and a little like a dress it had a full, wide skirt, but it only went down a little below her knees. Then it had buttons that ran up her chest to the short barrel collar of the coat, and the one she was wearing only had short sleeves as well. It was mostly gray but had a pattern of white lines and blue swirls in a thick band around its bottom hem, and then embroidery around the arms, neck, and buttons up the front.

Arya loved the suits. She had to try and keep them clean, because they were gifts and it was respectful, but she had clothes that weren’t so fine for sparing. The suits mean that even when she looked like a Layd of House Stark she could still _move_.

“Did you find anything?”

“No.” Arya huffed down at him as she looked in the baskets. “They’re just filled with smaller baskets.”

“Are you done?”

“Are you calling me fat?” Arya asked, more curious than offended, but Ser Rowan was trying not to laugh at the door and failing badly.

“No, but your knee is squashing my ear.”

“You’re going to be a knight.” Arya was still a little jealous of that. “A squashed ear is nothing.”

Arya got down anyway, sliding down Edric’s front and shoving him a little when they ended up standing too close and he kept hugging her. She didn’t need a hug! They were trying to help find why Holston had something that _wasn’t his_ . Just thinking about it made her upset. Arya’s father couldn’t even really _talk_ about her Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Brandon, and she knew how important it must have been to him to give his sister’s bracelet to Lyarra. The idea that someone had stolen it made her angry.

“Lady Arya, you might have a word with your pet…” Ser Rowan called out, his tone nervous and slightly annoyed and Arya turned, already speaking.

“She’s not my _pet_. She’s my friend. Nymeria, leave the wall alo-!”

“Wait.” Edric interrupted, frowning as he stepped forward. “Why is the rug nailed to wall and not hung?”

Arya was grinning widely as she ran over to her friend, Edric right beside her. 

“You’re right, there are tacks all up the side.”

“Here, I’ll get this side.” 

Edric moved over away from her and Arya gently nudged Nymeria back, giving her a brief, hard hug around her heavy neck in thanks before she joined him in prying up the tacks with her belt knife. Ser Rowan inched further into the room after yelling down the hallway that they might have found something. It felt rather vindicating as she knew they’d been allowed to come along only because Edric was Oberyn’s squires and squires went everywhere with their knights. _Arya_ had been allowed along because Edric came along and because Nymeria was useful at sniffing out poisons and secret passages. She hadn’t shown any sign of finding any, though, and they’d been sent to the room that Prince Oberyn considered least important to search it.

“Well now, has my squire found something of value?”

Arya turned to glare fiercely at Oberyn because it had _not_ been Edric who found it, but he had to go and surprise her again because it was the Lord of Starfall who spoke first.

“It was Nymeria, Prince Oberyn. My side’s loose, Arya, is yours?”

“On three!” Arya grinned, grabbing the edge. “One!”

“Two.” Oberyn drawled gamely.

“Three!” Edric grinned at her in the same moment as she grinned back and they pulled the rug up.

Behind the carpet was a flat wooden door set flush with the white plaster of the wall. Arya reached for it but Prince Oberyn held his hand flat against it. Edric stepped back politely even as Nymeria silent rolled her lips back from her teeth in annoyance before moving out of the way as well.

“Step back and allow me.”

Muttering some of the swears that she’d picked up in Braavosi from listening to Syrio and Oberyn spar - Oberyn always said that it was rude to swear at a man in his second language if you knew his first, especially if he was _beating you_ \- she moved out of the way. Oberyn opened the door cautiously. He also did it the same way that Gwyn had taught her to move rocks when you were looking for snakes. Arya resolved to ask if anyone guarded their secrets in Dorne by putting poisonous snakes with them, because that made sense. After all, Gwyn had known the rock trick but Oberyn had taught all of them, even Gwyn, more ways to pick up things like spiders, snakes, and scorpions since they’d gotten to Dorne.

Inside was a shallow depression in the adobe of the wall. It was crossed by several shelves. The shelves had neat stacks of small silver bars on them and bags that opened to reveal gold coins. Arya blinked and huffed out a breath in disappointment, then curiosity took hold.

“Are we taking his gold too?”

“No, we shall hide that as it was, tell no-one, and leave the guards to keep the house safe from any looters who will take this as a chance to make a profit.” Prince Oberyn shook his head and then raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Can you tell me why?”

Arya considered, frowning and nodded.

“It wouldn’t be just? You haven’t found out what he’s guilty of yet.”

“And he might not be guilty at all.” Edric added. 

“How could he not be guilty of something? That bracelet isn’t his!”

Edric paused, looking toward Oberyn for help, but Arya just glared.

“Either admit I’m right or just say why I could be wrong.”

“No disrespect to your aunt, Lady Arya.” Edric offered. “But it could have been that Prince Rhaegar carried it as a token into battle and it fell and was looted from the field at the Trident. Or she could have lost it at any place between Riverrun and the Red Mountains. If so, it could have passed between many hands before ending up where he said; at a stall in King’s Landing.”

“Yes, but he said there were a lot like it.” Arya jutted her chin out stubbornly. “ _That_ was a lie.”

“Unless the goldsmith used the bracelet to create a mold and cast more from it.”

Arya paused and scowled at the thought. That wasn’t right at all. Torcs were made by the Mountain Clans as a form of art. They were old and they were special to her people and their legends. The idea of some goldsmith doing that felt like cheating and another kind of theft all on its own. 

“Good points all.” Prince Oberyn reached out and laid a hand on either of their shoulders. “For now we have all that this house can yield and Ser Manfrey ought to be arriving soon from Planky Town. Let us return to the Sandship and see what we may find out.”

Everyone agreed and Edric managed to get to the door first and hold it open. He even _bowed_ . Arya felt her face turn pink as she blushed at the way the knights and Prince Oberyn smirked at that. She’d hit Edric _extra hard_ when they were sparring to make up for it.

Maybe.

  


* * *

**Sunspear, Dorne, 298 A.C., Midday**

Lyarra was exhausted, but she had both of her great-grandmother’s torcs in her possession when she left Ser Symon’s quarters. She also felt awful. Lady Rosamund was a kind, decent lady in every way. She and her husband seemed to love each other dearly. She had helped raise his two children from a previous and far more lowly marriage as if they were her own. Master Holston, in turn, had never held it against her that there had been no more children in their own marriage.

“Lyarra, you’re tired. Will you lay down for a while?” Gwyn fretted at her. “Or do you want some broth or something light to eat?”

“How about a cool bath?” Walda’s concern was obvious and it made her smile as both ladies flanked her.

Lady Allyria had recruited Iryna to manage the festivities. Princess Tayla, of course, was closeted closely with her new husband and was not expected to be seen out of their quarters until the festivities at sunset. As such, she was spared the worries of planning for her wedding and with Lyarra otherwise occupied someone had to handle details. Lady Allyria was well-suited to the task and Iryna was fine support. A lifetime as the only child of Sunspear’s Castellan assured that the blonde was actually very knowledgeable about such things despite an occasionally featherbrained personality. 

“I’d rather just see this through.” Lyarra shook her head, but let Walda wind an arm through her own so she could lean on the larger girl’s strength.

Her son, as if knowing his mother was unwell, twisted in her belly and gave a kick hard enough to earn a wince from the princess. Lyarra put a hand on her belly and rolled her eyes at Gwyn’s immediate look of concern. She silently admitted to a bit of relief when Gwyn frowned and announced she was going to fetch refreshments _personally_ anyway. Ghost, who had been following them, stepped forward and Lyarra rested her hand in the white fur at the nape of her direwolf’s neck, taking silent reassurance from her presence. 

Captain Areo Hotah stood at the door to the formal receiving chamber Prince Doran had chosen to conduct the matter of the torc in. The Captain of Prince Doran’s personal guard’s hair was white and his beard of the same color was neatly trimmed. His dark eyes were watchful and kind. Hotah was a warrior of such reknown that everyone in Dorne seemed to give him a wide berth. The man was quiet and withdrawn, living a life devoted to duty. Despite this he also took time to speak to the children of the household, and when not at duty had even allowed Arya to attempt to hold his great axe. As it was well-more than a foot taller than she was that had only resulted in her sister pouting and Hotah preventing damage to either the young lady in question or the furniture around her. 

“Princess Lyarra.” Hotah nodded at her stoicly and rapped the metal cap at the butt of his axe upon the floor as he raised his voice to announce her, then let her into the chamber.

An extra table, low like the others, had been brought into the otherwise sparsely furnished room. Rugs had been laid down beneath it and cushions, rather than chairs. Lyarra blinked and then smiled as she saw Prince Trystane had joined the group and taken a seat on the single settee available.

Lanky, quiet, and sensitive her husband’s youngest nephew was just a little apart and awkward from the rest of his family at times in a totally different way than Quentyn. Prince Quentyn was still finding his place after spending the bulk of his life in Yronwood as a fosterling. Prince Trystane had grown up with his father and his family in Sunspear and the Water Gardens, but had still suffered his own isolation. He’d been barely toddling when his mother, Lady Mellario, returned to Norvos and did not remember her. With Quentyn gone to Yronwood when he was much the same age, Trystane had been raised as an only child by a caring but distant father. Then there was the matter of, amongst his cousins, being the _only_ boy. With the eight Sand Snakes and Iryna all present in either Sunspear or the Water Gardens that left him very sadly outnumbered by a small fleet of boisterous personalities.

“Hello, Lyarra, Lady Walda.” Trystane offered her a smile and immediately got up and offered her the seat instead. “Isn’t Lady Gwyn coming?”

“Is Gwyn bringing food?” Arya, who was present as well, immediately asked. 

“Ah, Gwyn Parren, friend to bottomless pits everywhere.” Oberyn commented as he reentered the room from the discrete back doorway that led to the servant’s hallway and, somewhere beyond that, a privy. 

“As a man with no reputation in regards to his appetites, I am sure you are not one to judge, husband.” 

Lyarra’s pert reply got a brief grin before Oberyn’s expression grew more serious and he walked over to take a seat beside her on the settee. As Walda settled herself down on the cushions everyone else present shuffled about to find comfort, distribute cushions more fairly, and accommodate a change in the group’s numbers around the table. Prince Doran, who had a lap desk across his thighs stacked high with folded letters and scrolls, remained silent during this exchange and as Oberyn spent a few moments inquiring after his pregnant wife’s comfort and condition.

Of the Sand Snakes, two were present. Dorea and Loreza were too young, as was Obella. Elia Sand had no interest yet in matters of politics and her skills were not aligned in that direction. Obara would want to be informed should action be called for, but seldom wanted to hear of the politics themselves. She had instead appointed herself as one of the guards in the dungeons watching over Rannoc Holston. Nymeria and Sarella, however, were most interested in all such matters, though Lyarra was almost surprised to see the younger of the two. Lady Sarella Sand, no doubt soon to be legitimized to _Princess_ Sarella Martell, had spent a great deal of her time in the buildup to the festivities in the library with Lord Willas Tyrell discussing every subject from horses to politics to fossils and economics. 

“What had the man’s wife to say?”

“Lady Rosamund is seems innocent and very distressed.” Lyarra replied, tiredly as she looked down at both the heavy golden bracelets upon her wrist. “I’m sure of it.”

“How did you become so sure?” Oberyn frowned. “You’ve a kind heart, Lyarra.”

“Yes, but Gwyn does not, nor Ghost, and the first agrees and the later showed no reaction in her presence.” Lyarra shook her head. “She was also _horrified_ to hear where the torc came from. She’s firmly convinced it was taken from the dead or the field itself at the Trident, as that’s the only explanation she can think of.”

“My squire suggested that as well.”

“It is a possibility.” Sarella began and Nymeria interrupted with a droll look at her younger sister.

“You cannot possibly believe it is that _simple_ . The man is clearly guilty of _something_! He was nervous when confronted at the feast. He was jumpy with his goodbrother, Ser Symon made no bones of that, and he was sobbing like a baby when taken into custody.”

“Dungeons have a tendency to do that to people, I’ve heard.” Trystane replied, the normally shy boy’s tone tart as his older cousin turned her dark eyes on him.

“From where? Do you even know where the Dungeons are in your own castle?”

“Nymeria, be kind to your cousin.” Oberyn admonished and his daughter nodded in chagrin.

“I’m sorry, Trystane.”

“Well,” The younger boy offered her a crooked little smile. “You’re not wrong? Maybe you could show me later?”

“I think that is an excellent idea.” Doran finally spoke, his tone quiet and as polite as always, but a hint of amusement touching his otherwise serious expression. “One day Quentyn shall be Prince as I am now. He will look to his brother and his cousins to offer his reign the support mine own brother shows myself. I can only think that, given you have inherited my quieter disposition, Trystane, your cousin Nymeria’s skills might well suit you more than taking your uncle’s more… boisterous example to heart would.”

Trystane outright grinned then, surprised and pleased by his father’s words and amused by the sally at Oberyn’s expense.

“It is difficult to replicate perfection.” Oberyn sniffed and Lyarra held in snort of amusement that turned into a giggle at Doran’s response.

“Or recreate a disaster with any precision.” 

Gwyn was announced and entered at that point. A large wooden tray bound by a bronze rim and handles was in her hands. On the tray was a large, brightly glazed ceramic pitcher, two silver platters, a basket covered by a cloth, and several cups much like the pitcher in design.

Prince Doran pointed to the ledgers covering the table and then waved his hand for it to be cleared. Lyarra didn’t bother to stir as she hardly had the maneuverability to help, but between everyone else the leatherbound account books were neatly moved to the side quickly, save for the three that the Prince gestured should be passed to Lyarra as he set aside the paperwork he had been looking through.

“Only three of these are any use to us. Can you tell me why, Sister?”

Lyarra immediately opened the books. She didn’t rush to answer. Her own prince had told her that his brother’s habit of testing those around him was new. Oberyn seemed to consider it both a positive change, as it meant his brother was reaching out more to his family. He was also upset by it, for he recognized it for what it was. The plague had driven home to everyone how fragile life was and Prince Doran was neither young nor in good health. Any reminder that he was likely to be left as the last of his siblings left Oberyn by turns irate and despondent. Though she had never seen it, Nymeria had told her in confidence once that it was the realization that such thoughts left her uncle in the same condition that had led her to realize she had spent most of her life with an inaccurate picture of Prince Doran’s nature.

Prince Doran’s questions often seemed easy. He did not ask complex questions, at least not on the surface. When one really _thought_ about them, however, Lyarra had found they never had a simple answer. Very frequently they didn’t have a _single_ answer or even a _correct_ answer. 

“They are all from the timeframe of the Rebellion or the year afterward.” Lyarra offered, turning the pages. “They’re - they seem to have been compiled out of a ship’s manifest and copied over from paperwork at ports. In Essos?”

Prince Doran nodded and looked meaningfully at everyone else. With a sigh Oberyn moved behind the settee so that Gwyn could sit down and lean over to see and Arya move to the other side. Walda busied herself filling glasses with the fruit punch in the pitcher. Everyone else sidled up to try and contribute or make their own wild guesses. 

“I bet he stole war loot and took it to Essos!” Arya suggested after looking over her sister’s shoulder. 

“I’m curious about the fact that he chose to sail _North_ on the Narrow Sea during Winter.” Nymeria frowned. “It says here he went to Braavos. Why? It seems un- oh. No, that’s where he withdrew the funds his kinsman left him. I see the entry. Though why wouldn’t he withdraw them from the Iron Bank’s branch in King’s Landing? It’s a goodly sum, but not a fortune.”

“I’m suspicious of his claims in general.” Sarella replied. “Forget the ledgers, look at the premise. He did not own the ship when he was in King’s Landing. He was merely captaining it for the merchant that did.”

“Which makes no sense because he might have _wanted_ to buy the ship from the Merchant, but that Merchant wouldn’t let him take that ship anywhere without profit involved unless he had the gold in hand to buy it there and then.” Gwyn blinked and leaned down. “And this is an awful cargo to take to Braavos. It’s mostly woolens and odds and ends.”

“Braavos has its own textile trade, and it buys in fine wool from the North when it doesn’t wish to use its own.” Lyarra agreed, but it was the flare of deep suspicion and low, coiled anger across her bond that made her look back. “Oberyn?”

“He did not go to Braavos.” The Viper scowled in a flash of fang as a passing sneer showed his teeth. “For one my brother is right. Ignore the most distracting aspects. Look towards the details.”

“What is it Uncle?” Trystane asked, his tone eager as he fell into the mystery of it. He also took a bite of a folded flatbread smeared in crumbly white cheese and loaded with cold fowl and sliced olives and peppers.

“Braavos’ economy and the demand for space there is such that they charge high docking fees.” Oberyn explained, tapping one column. “Even in winter when trade is slowest this would be too low. He went to Pentos.”

“He did go to Pentos.” Doran agreed, nudging his own chair forward and setting the punch Walda had handed him aside after only taking a brief sip in thanks. “Rannoc Holston went to Pentos, in a ship he had to own and so had bought in King’s Landing. While there he picked up a cargo of pentoshi wine.”

“Not very good wine, either.” Oberyn observed, frowning. “From there he went to Myr.”

“Then Tyrosh, Lys, Volantis… all the way to Slaver’s Bay.” Lyarra frowned, turning through the books one after another. “This doesn’t make sense. He is just going from one place to another, as fast as he can.”

“He was a lair.” Arya declared. “I bet he was a craven too and he was running away from something!”

“But from what?” Tyrstane blinked. “Did he have bad debts? There aren’t any in the book.”

“Plenty of things don’t make it into a lying merchant’s books and he already lied about going to Braavos.” Walda pointed out. “Is he running from whoever gave him the money to buy the ship? Was it really a dead kinsman?”

“I don’t think so.” Gwyn shook her head and looked at Lyarra, who nodded back slowly.

“Holston specifically said that his kinsman died _in the Rebellion_. He left around the time the battle of Gulltown was being fought.” 

“He didn’t come back to Westeros until after Uncle Oberyn had stopped trying to incite rebellion and war, though, and you were cleaning up the mess, Father.” Trystane observed, then stopped under Nymeria’s glare. 

“It’s the truth, daughter.” Oberyn ruffled his daughter’s hair, his tone wry. “Don’t glare at your cousin over _my_ idiocy. I’d have ended up seeing the combined armies of Westeros fall upon our people and then another hundred years of ambush warfare like against the Targaryens would have sapped our people’s strength. Not to mention the danger I put my family in. Were your uncle a lesser man and prince you and your sisters would have been exiled to Essos with nothing to support yourselves and I would have been dealt the same, if not a one way trip to the Wall.”

The air in the room grew heavier then and Lyarra reflected that _all_ families had their dark secrets. Her father never spoke of the family he had lost. She was _still_ waiting for him to arrive and speak of her mother. It was no surprise that part of learning to be one of House Martell was experiencing the pain and awkwardness of the past as well as the good moments. She would have to write to Sansa on the subject. _She_ was to be Roose Bolton’s gooddaughter one day; that was bound to be worse than Lyarra’s situation by whole orders of magnitude. 

“Yes, Father. I’m sorry, Uncle.”

“Let us worry about the past before us, Nymeria.” Doran Martell nodded to the books. “The past that is behind us can be dealt with in its own time. Now, direct your attention to his final ledger and the letters.” 

What followed was about half an hour of careful observation. Lyarra couldn’t help reflecting, silently, how much _money_ mattered whenever investigating anything. Lyrra knew that the ledgers from the Westerlands and Littlefinger’s books had borne fruit. For all the moons she’d spent learning the way to be a Princess of Dorne that investigation had gone on in the background. Lyarra wasn’t ignorant of it, but her talents hadn’t landed her in the middle of it, either. What she did know was that matters were coming to a head and when the wedding was over and the family not broken up to accomplish a hundred needful different tasks each, Prince Doran had promised a more open discussion with all involved. A discussion Lyarra felt strongly would go poorly for the Lannisters given Gwyn’s silent satisfaction and _obedience_ in all involved and the general feeling of ominous quiet that surrounded matters involving it.

The letters were illuminating as far as Holston’s actions went. None dated from before he reached Slaver’s Bay. What they did make disgustingly clear that once there he likely hadn’t intended to leave was that he accepted mostly cargos of slaves of lesser quality; shuttling them to the cities around the bay and managing a comfortable, but not incredibly successful, living there.

This changed when he was offered a golden opportunity. A wealthy merchant from Astapor had a cargo of ivory, spices, jewels, glass, and the rarest sort of silks from the far distant east. If it could be gotten to Westeros, the profits would be enormous. He needed only a captain who would risk the journey to Dorne despite the storms coming up from the Summer Sea.

Rannoc Holston drove a hard bargain. In the end, the deal was a good one, however, and he did just that. He reached Dorne. He sold the cargo and dealt with the Iron Bank to see the profits due to the merchant returned while he took his own and purchased more ships. He also began to court Rosamund Sand. 

“We know he was a liar and that there was likely no inheritance, but we’re still no closer to discovering how he got something from Rhaegar’s w- _Lady Lyanna.”_ Nymeria corrected herself with a contrite look at Lyarra.

Ghost and the other Nymeria, who were both laying against one of the walls in the shade and enjoying the cool stone tiling of the floor snorted and stretched and Lyarra stifled the mix of hurt and anger she always felt at how her aunt was thought of in Dorne. Arya scowled, but kept silent. They’d had more than one long talk about the costs of the war and the different ways it was seen. Lyarra herself was confused at the careful balance and certain hypocrisies present in Dornish culture. Having a paramour was no bad thing for a man or a woman. The gender of those involved mattered not at all. Yet _felicity_ in marriage was considered most important and agreement by all parties involved. A Lord or Lady who used their power over their spouse to keep a paramour while their spouse was in residence and opposed were thought of poorly. A man or woman who flaunted a paramour before their spouse when the spouse was opposed or had asked for discretion were violating protocol. Acknowledging a paramour over a spouse in terms of courtesy or forsaking the comfort of your spouse and their children for the sake of your paramour and bastards was unacceptable in the extreme.

_Nothing was ever simple_ . _If things were easy, they were not to be trusted._ Lyarra rubbed a hand over her face and spoke into the rather fraught silence as Gwyn and Arya rose and Oberyn took a seat beside her.

“I think what’s most important to consider is when and where he got it.” Lyarra went on. “We cannot trust anything he says so we do not know if he actually got it in King’s Landing or early in the war.”

“When else would he get it though?” Trystane frowned. “I cannot imagine him coming across it in Essos.”

“There is a chance that it made its way across Dorne from the Red Mountains through the hands of peasants and he actually bought it at Planky Town when he began to court his wife.” Sarella suggested. 

“He’s one of the commons though, and so would be the hands it passed through.” Gwyn frowned and shook her head. “I know if _I_ got something like that and wasn’t part of Lyarra’s household the first thing I would do is cut it up into manageable pieces. If you’re frugal and you’re smallfolk you can live for quite awhile off a heavy piece of golden jewelry like that.”

“Then I believe it is time we ask Master Holston, don’t you?” Doran’s response brought with it silence and Lyarra felt a chill at her husband’s toothy grin.

“Oh, very much so, my Prince.” The Red Viper stood smoothly. “Allow me to do the honors.”

Doran Martell nodded and looked at his niece. Lyarra felt a frisson of something dark at the Prince’s formal expression and use for the royal plural. Doran seldom used it out of open court.

“I believe that this will require a firm resolution. Please ask Ser Symon to attend us here as well, Lady Nymeria.”

“And the resolution, Brother, when we arrive to it?”

Lyarra felt the sharp edges of the question on her soulmate’s feeling as the Prince merely bid him away with a nod and Oberyn slipped out of the room.

* * *

**Sunspear, Dorne, 298 A.C., Just past Midday**

Obara Sand rarely bothered with politics. She was a warrior. She knew where her loyalty was owed, though she was ashamed that she hadn't fully known until recently. Her father hadn't been the only one who had raised her up from the gutter her mother called home and given her a real life. That was why she decided she'd be here for this.

Her uncle didn't use the Sunchair or the Great Hall but Obara noted that he really didn't have to. She was a little embarrassed to have thought Prince Doran weak for so long. Physically it couldn't be denied that the gout had crippled him. Looking around the reception room that they were using, however, she couldn't help but feel she'd spent a long time only looking at a single skirmish in a war, or a single stroke in a battle.

Prince Doran sat in his throne-like wheeled chair. He was arrayed in his usual silk robes in shades of red, gold, and orange with a light silk blanket over his lap. Beside him on one side, his great axe gleaming, stood Areo Hotah. In his own shining copper scalemail upon the other side stood Ser Daemon Sand.

Eight chairs were arranged on either side of the Prince at a little distance and at an angle. In a room mostly decorated in smooth white stone punctuated by colorful tile, the plain ebony wood of the simple chairs was ominous. To one side sat Obara's young stepmother. A nice girl, really, who never tried to make their relationship something that it wasn't, Obera liked the Northerner. She'd been a bastard once too, if in a far better situation, and she understood a few things that Obara thought was important to understand and all too many of the trueborn didn’t have the sense to figure out. Before she'd reached the whale-like portion of pregnancy, she'd been good for a spar now and then as well. Her little sister fit in well with the younger Snakes as well and otherwise didn't bother Obara, either.

Beside Lyarra sat her sister and two of her ladies. Obara didn't have much to do with them, but they had her father's approval. On the other four chairs Trystane sat, along with Nymeria and Sarella. In the last chair, his expression severe, the Knight of Spottswood sat.

His ostentatious court clothing was rumpled, but the silk and velvet was clean as Holston was led into the room, Oberyn gripping one arm about the elbow and Ser Manfrey gripping the other. Obara was surprised to note the severe expression on her cousin's face. Ser Manfrey was a fine warrior and an excellent tactician but Sunspear's Castellan was mostly known to the family at large for his lack of tact and good nature.

"Your Grace! I know not what I have done to offend, but I am _innocent_! I-."

"You will speak when your Prince bids you to! Until then keep your tongue between your teeth and be pleased you have it!" Ser Manfrey spat.

Obara watched as her father forwent speech for delivering a vicious clout to the man's ear as he winced away from the angry bellow of the knight and towards the second born prince. As she was standing at the rear of the procession she did the obvious thing. Obara whacked the butt of her spear painfully hard against the back of Holston's knees so he collapsed forward onto the hard floor, his hands holding him up as Oberyn and Ser Manfrey released his arms. Both men moved to stand flanking the prince, slightly in front of and closer than Hotah and Ser Daemon. Prince Doran Martell said nothing.

" _Please_ , Your Grace, I beseech you." Her uncle's gaze remained steady, unblinking, and unreadable as he stared at the man on his knees before him on the floor. Oberyn looked to his oldest daughter. The black eyes they shared flickered and Obara smiled a little as she executed the unspoken order and brought the metal-capped butt of her spear against the man's back, causing him to cry out again.

"Shut your trap!" Obara snarled and watched the man hold in a sob. 

She and everyone else waited. It wasn't a short wait, but it wasn't a long one, either. The words, when spoken were measured. Her uncle's tone was controlled and pleasant. He sounded exactly as he always did when addressing the court. He moved his hands and revealed that underneath the turned and swollen knuckles was the second torc. It's faintly reddish tinted gold gleamed in the diffused light through the sandalwood window screens. The snarling caps on each end of it looked almost like they were laughing in the harsh play of shadow and light of midday Dorne.

"Your Prince requests that you inform Us why you chose to lie to Our brother, Prince Oberyn Martell and his wife, Princess Lyarra, about your possession of an heirloom of House Stark."

"I know not where it came from originally, Prince Doran!" The man plead. "I am merely a merchant and beneath the politics of the Great Houses. I bought it, no more!"

Obara waited in the silence that followed for any indication she should strike him again. She got none. She looked at her father rather than her uncle and found him tense, but also hanging upon his brother's still form and silent non-expression. So was the merchant, and when the Prince didn't speak, he began again.

"Truly, I _am_ innocent. I beg forgiveness for having given the Princess grief. It was unintended. I merely purchased a gift for my betrothed and now, years later, it has come awry!"

Prince Doran's expression didn't grow vexed. No anger played over his features. If anything, he looked... disappointed? Obara had no idea why the same instincts she honed for battle began raising the hair along her arms and the back of her neck in response, but they did.

"Master Holston, are We known as a man who chooses Our words unwisely?"

"I -never, Your Grace! All of the known world has seen Your Grace’s benevolence. Your wisdom and generosity during the Plague saved lives uncounted! Your Grace's foresight and insistence on peace has brought Dorne more commercial wealth and strengthened trade to the greatest extent in _generations_. Perhaps the randy knights and prideful lords yearn for battle, but the commons, the people, we know your good rule for what it is and what it has done for us!"

"A yes or no would suffice." Obara's father drawled, shifting slightly on his feet, obviously growing impatient.

"We would prefer an answer to Our first question." Doran replied again, calmly and with that perfect composure that Arianne had screamed and railed against as he denied her answers and walled away her birthright. "Why do you lie, Master Holston?"

"I-," The man's hands were shaking and he was sweating profusely, despite the room not being so hot.

Obara took note of this and wondered what and how much her sister had given him. She thought of a couple likely mixes. Both caused excessive nervousness and made the heart beat very quickly. They tended to loosen lips without truly clouding the mind. He did at least have the sense to fall silent as Prince Doran raised a hand. Now his expression began to shift. Losing none of its calm, the pain lines carved around his mouth and eyes seemed to deepen and something harder settled there. Something that had nothing to do with the benevolent man who sent out the goats for the inoculation because it was right, but had a lot to do with the man who had sent them everywhere but the Iron Islands.

"Ask yourself, Master Holston, if you believe We would have left you untouched in Our dungeons for so many hours if there was anything else you could tell Us, which We do not already know."

Obara as glad she was standing behind the man as she blinked at her uncle bluffing. Had she ever seen him do it? Obara wracked her mind and realized she'd never know if he did. The others sitting in the chairs mainly kept their expressions mostly blank, though Lady Walda looked distressed. Lady Gwyn and Lady Arya, Obara noted, mostly looked rather like the two direwolves did upon sighting a scrub hare.

As if summoned by thought, both of the pony-sized wolves stood and began to walk to the end of the room where their people were seated; their claws clicked ominously on the tile as they went. Holston whipped his head around and stared, his expression widening in horror and blanching as he tried to scoot backward. Obara set the business end of her spear down at an angle where he'd have to impale himself to back away and the man cowered instead.

Obara kept watching as the direwolves made their way to Arya and Lyarra. As they passed they sniffed at the air and Ghost curled her teeth back in a silent snarl before Lyarra buried her fingers in the short fur at her nape. Nymeria actually growled low in her throat as the little girl who controlled her drew a hand almost ominously down the full line of her back and tail. Both stayed there by their people, standing and occasionally flashing their teeth and panting.

"Have you nothing to say, Master Holston?" 

Like he was on a string, the man's eyes jerked back towards his prince from the wolves and the way he jumped seemed to break something in proud Ser Symon. The Knight of Spotswood's father had been made a laughingstock during the War of Ninepenny Kings. Caught, emasculated, and forced to eat his own genitals by Spotted Tom, the previous Knight of Spottswood had been a gibbering wreck by the time he had been freed from captivity at the end of the brief war. 

Old Lord Trant had been the one who had freed him and the Stormlander had made a point to publicly introduce the broken man to everyone he could to shame the Dornish. It was rumored that his son had granted him a merciful death after he'd been returned to Dorne, and to this day it was a standing rule to never leave the Knight of Spotswood alone with a Stormlander. Marrying his daughter away there had been the most blatant and brutal disownment Obara had ever seen.

" _Speak_ , damn you!" Ser Symon surged out of his seat and delivered a brutal kick to Holston's ribs. "I called you _brother_ , you fucking cur! Foreign, common and plain though you were, I gave you my sister's hand in marriage! I gave you her dowry! I forwent bride price, you cock-twiddling thief! I welcomed you into _my_ _home_ and let you use my good name and my House's to make your dirty gold! Now you would disrespect the Prince in my presence while my sister weeps for your filthy, lying hide and I am shamed-"

Obara was about to move forward, but her father caught her eye as Ser Daemon and Ser Manfrey rushed forward instead. She was surprised the Prince said nothing, but the heavy rap of Areo Hotah's axe proved enough to end Ser Symon's wrestling with the other knights. His chest heaving, he returned to his seat with clear reluctance. Holston was curled up on his side, having tried to protect his ribs and face with his arms, and he craned his neck to look at the Prince as Obara's uncle leaned forward.

"Well?" Doran's single word cut through the silence like a knife, or perhaps a death knell. With a last look around the room, eyes cast in every direction, the unremarkable little man let out a strangled sob and threw himself on his belly before the Ruling Prince's wheeled chair. His first word creaked like rotted timber as he cried out.

" _Mercy_ , Your Grace, I beg mercy. Not for myself, for my wife and for my sons. They were but boys. They are innocent. Spare them, I beg you. They did no wrong!'

"My Prince, I grow impatient with his creature. Let us have done with it."

"It wasn't my fault. I didn't realize-."

"The truth."

Holston let out a nearly inuduble moan and looked up, his expression twisted.

"All of it. Every word, please, _my sons-._ " Prince Doran's nod was enough. The man clutched his robes, white knuckled, as he rose onto his knees and then hunched down onto himself, biting his lip bloody before the words began to tumble free.

"I'd been captain for but a year, but I wanted more. I wanted a ship of my own and I almost had it. Just a few hundred more and I could buy the _Green Bounty_. She was a good, solid ship and if I had her I could get my sons back from my goodfather's shop and make a real future for them. I wouldn't live in a damned shack that smelled of shit and fish guts." The man swallowed and looked up, blood dripping from his nose where one kick from Ser Symon had landed and his voice growing stuffy. It would have sounded ridiculous if it weren't for what he was saying. "My first mate was a good man, but he liked whores and the owner - a fat pig with seven ships he'd inherited - didn't trust him."

Obara’s neck prickled as she gained a sense of where this had to go for anyone _else_ involved in the man’s tale.

"One night not long after Lord Rickard had been burned and the capitol was all scared shitless of what might come next, my mate came to me and told me we had to up anchor. He had the money to make it up to the owner even without a cargo in hand. All we had to do was leave right then."

The man paused and his expression twisted. 

"Father forgive me, I didn't _mean_ to kill him. He had a bag of gold! Enough I could buy the ship. I couldn't afford to take it to Dorne without a cargo, though. _Let me have some of the gold_ , I begged him. I had my money in the Iron Bank of Braavos', in the branch right there in King's Landing. All we had to do was wait for the morn. I could withdraw it and go to the owner! I _told_ him I'd buy the _Bounty_ and we'll sail to Dorne in a couple of days with a cargo. What do a couple of days matter? I'd pay him back from my profits!"

"I just meant to knock him out with the jug, but it fractured his skull. I took the gold and used some of it to buy the ship and went to Pentos with a cargo I bought with the rest. I didn't look in his sea chest until I was out to sea for Myr. I _swear_ I didn't look. That's where the letters were and the torc. I burned-."

" _What_ _letters?_ " Obara blinked at her uncle's uncharacteristically sharp tone. Holston moaned and looked at Doran. His hands were shaking as he spoke. The sweat was running down his face now and tears threatened to join it.

"From your uncle, Prince Lewyn. B-begging the Red Viper sail to Blackwater Bay in secret. T-the Silver Prince's plans had gone awry an-and another way would only be open but shortly for you to save-."

Things got deeply confused at that point. With a strangled cry of rage, Obara's father leapt forward. Ser Symon let out a cry of grief and, instead of attacking, stumbled backwards. He knocked his chair over and covered his face in shame. Meanwhile Ghost lurched forward with a snarl, seizing at the man's ankle only to be quickly knocked away by her sister as the two wolves roughly tussled into a corner, sending Trystane, Nymeria, and Sarella's chairs flying as they scrambled out of the way.

Obara leapt forward, but she wasn't at all sure who to grab. Her father was cursing wildly, howling out his grief and betrayal in half-a-dozen languages as Ser Manfrey threw his greater weight on his cousin and attempted to drag him away. Not knowing what to do, Obara grabbed her cousin's arm and worked to try and pull him to the side, which freed her father to attack again. Then Ser Daemon surged forward and grabbed the Viper as well.

Obara's ribs stung in pain as she suddenly found herself landing on her ass on the hard stone floor. She almost bounced up at the ready, her spear having been knocked aside, but chose not to as she realized what had knocked her down. Areo Hotah had nimbly swung his axe around and in one motion knocked her and Ser Daemon aside, levered the handle around her father's chest and arms and his broad shoulders bunched as he bodily picked up Obara's father.

_"Enough!"_ The sharp order, not a shout but not the quiet tones that were all Obara had ever heard from Prince Doran had no effect on her struggling father, but something else did.

"Oberyn, _listen_!" 

Obara watched in approval as her father's young soulmate abandoned her seat and grabbed at his wrist. As her fingers closed over their shared Mark she must have done something unseen because Oberyn Martell sucked in a breath without cursing and ceased delivering punishing kicks to the Captain of the guard. That was all the pause Prince Doran needed. 

"Ser Manfrey, Ser Daemon." Crisp orders followed. "Take Holston into custody. Oberyn, _control_ yourself. It shall be answered."

" _My sons_..." Holston moaned as the others dragged him to his feet and Hotah dropped her father and stepped back, all wary attention on the room as he returned to his post by the Prince. 

Obara watched, swallowing as Prince Doran Martell put both hands upon the arms of his chair, set his feet upon the ground, and stood. He had been moons away from the Water Garden. Though nobody ever spoke of it, she knew he was in terrible pain. He often let others believe his gout was worse than it was, but the prince could usually walk at least short distances. That he hadn't been seen doing so, leaning upon his cane and either one of his sons or his brother, spoke of how bad he had gotten.

Still he stood, his black eyes snapping as the height most forgot he possessed was revealed. Trystane rushed forward and one crippled hand landed heavily across the boy's narrow shoulders. Obara watched her cousin brace his legs and accept the weight of his duty to his father and Dorne in one movement.

"Your sons' fate depends much upon your next words, Master Holston." Doran Martell's quiet proclamation was colder than any wind that had ever cut across Obara Sand's senses in all the years she had lived. "Where are Prince Lewyn Martell's letters?"

The whisper was inaudible, but Ser Symon, his face twisted with furious shame, could take no more. 

_"Speak, damn you!"_

Holston's mouth worked open a few times before he finally rasped out an answer.

"I burned them." 

Silence fell again and Obara watched nervously as her father's face contorted, seemingly trapped between a scream of rage and another great outburst of violence. It was the Prince of Dorne who spoke, however, and the Red Viper waited, coiled havoc resting in his clenched fists.

"Before witnesses I judge you guilty of the following crimes, Rannoc Holston. By your own confession, you murdered a Dornishman. What was the name of your first mate?"

"Pavel. He hadn't a family name." The man sobbed, cringing as he clutched a bloody and broken hand that had likely gotten stamped on to his chest. "Your Grace, _my sons-"_

"I name you complicit in the murder of my sister, the Princess Elia Martell, and her two children." 

Holston's sobbing became wild and he collapsed again onto the floor on his belly.

"In punishment, all of your material goods and property are forfeit, save Rosamund Sand's dowry, which shall be returned to her. We give her into the care of her brother, Ser Symon Spottswood, who we hold blameless in this dishonor." Ser Symon bowed silently. "Your sons are hereby banished from Dorne. Their inheritance is forfeit, as it was bought with the blood of the innocent, but their arms, armor, and horses shall be permitted them in recognition of their age and knighthood."

"And what of this filth, brother? _What of him_?" Obara looked from her father to her uncle and back.

"Tonight Our son, Prince Trystane, and Goodsister, Princess Lyarra, shall stand as representatives of House Martell's largesse before Our noble guests." Prince Doran's voice was calm again, but Obara swallowed as she watched her uncle and her father's black eyes lock and realized that beneath superficial differences... they really did look much alike. "Order the _Red Sky_ prepared to sail immediately from Planky Town. Tonight the condemned is a sailor. As such, we shall take him fishing."

Obara was left utterly confused to join the others in escorting, basically dragging, the sobbing merchant away. Her uncle sat again, unable to hold back a grimace of pain, and she dimly heard her father break away from his fury for a moment to fuss at his young wife over the babe she carried and receive some sharp answer back she couldn't make out. She was utterly confused about the banality of the man's punishment and sure it meant more than she knew.

Despite several educated guesses and quite a bit of talk with Nymeria about it, however, she didn't hit on the truth of it. In fact, she found herself quite far off. She had assumed drowning, perhaps prolonged in a number of ways that were favored in torture. She'd also considered that, once on the Martell ship, _Red Sky_ , he might be strung up in the rigging and torn apart. Nymeria thought it most likely given their father's rage.

Instead Obara learned more about what a quiet man was capable of. As her uncle sat calmly in his chair, which Captain Hotah held firmly in place on the deck, she found herself called to her father's side along with Nymeria. Quentyn, who was stronger than he looked, and Ser Manfrey, held the man in place. Slabs of cork were tied to his neck and back so he could not drown and as she watched, her father took a razor and inflicted a hundred shallow, stinging, bleeding cuts along his naked body.

Then, with a sedate nod, Prince Doran Martell ordered Rannoc Holston cast into the sea, a sturdy line looped beneath his arms. As the wind slowly pushed them along, the coast a shadow to one side and the full moon hanging fat overhead, the bait taking part in House Martell's fishing trip screamed for mercy as one after another, fins split the water. They weren't down by Salt Shore, so it took quite a while, and quite a few smaller visitors partook of a nibble before, finally, with shaking head and gleaming teeth, a huge white-bellied shadow ended the man's life and his screaming.

As the revelers from the night's entertainment slipped back into the castle, House Martell returned as well. Tired, but ill at ease despite having no issue with violence, Obara consented to follow Nymeria to her room with Sarella at their heels. With only a few half-hearted curses, Obara even threw an arm around her younger sister as they all collapsed upon Nymeria's huge bed and the second-born Sand Snake insisted on wriggling between her two sisters and occupying more of their space than her own. There was a moment of blissful silence before Obara discontented herself by speaking.

"I want to know why the fuck that idiot ever came back to Dorne."

"I want to know what was in Ser Lewyn's burned letters."

"Both of you are wrong." 

Nymeria kicked Obara as she turned over to stare at Serella. Obara wrapped her knuckles against the top of her sister's head for it. She also turned to look into the warm brown face of her third sister and reached out to touch the wild, lively curls surrounding the sharp, thoughtful black eyes.

"What are we wrong about, Sarella?"

"What we all should ask ourselves is how Prince Lewyn Martell, Princess Elia's greatest champion in the Mad King's court, who was _nowhere near_ Riverrun or Rhaegar for weeks before or after Lady Lyanna ran off with the Prince, got his hands on that torc."

In the distance Obara heard the clatter of a servant dropping something farther down the hallway outside Nymeria's quarters. Through the open windows she heard the rattling and distant speech of the early morning as the Sandship's servants woke up. In the Shadow City smallfolk began to conduct all the business that was to be done before the midday heat, and a distant hawker with great projection could be heard screaming out the price of yogurt and fresh plums.

"Aw, fucking Seven Hells." Obara threw an arm over her eyes. "Now I'm _never_ getting to sleep."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra finally finds something she doesn't like about Dornish weather, things are done in the Small Council, Ser Brynden Tully reflects on his life choices, and Prince Doran gives Oberyn a present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, guys. This chapter was 34 pages long when I was done. I erased a total of 60+ pages in the earlier versions that didn't make the cut.

**The Water Gardens, Dorne, 298 A.C.**

"Pestilential midges!"

"At least they don't bite. The mosquitos are simply horrendous back in the Riverlands."

"Oh, we have much the same at Wyl, but who needs them to bite you when you can _choke_ on them simply by breathing?"

"You must be exaggerating, Ser."

"No, no, storm midges have strangled horses that way."

"Just by existing?"

"Their existence is the pestilence."

Lyarra let out a deep breath and relaxed as the voices carried on down the open hallway outside of the suite she shared with her husband at the Water Gardens. Walda's cheerful voice was only slightly annoyed in tone as she walked with Ser Morton Wyl. Nor was it the fault of the young lord who had stuck to her side like glue since meeting her. That could be blamed on the swarms of insects they were discussing. The knight's lust for her lady-in-waiting was almost as transparent as Walda's shocked and delighted determination to catch the valuable heir as thoroughly as any man had ever been caught.

Had it been any other time Lyarra would have enjoyed giggling with Gwyn in a corner somewhere as she watched Walda at work. The seduction technique of a lady of House Frey was nothing like the polished, sensual mannerisms used by the ladies of Dorne. If anything, her open, brazen, and totally unsubtle actions seemed to leave ladies like Lady Allyria Dayne and others totally flummoxed in its success. Lyarra just wished Lady Myria hadn't returned home so soon. She'd have enjoyed watching it, though she wasn't sure the lady could have restrained herself from offering advice and said as much to her companion.

"Unnecessary advice." Gwyn snorted and rolled her eyes, giving Lyarra a worried look.

"I'm well enough, Gwyn, don't fret. Oberyn and I have talked about it, and with the maester. They're just pains to get me ready for the labor. Which, Gods willing, will be soon." Lyarra huffed and tugged over another pillow in a useless bid for a more comfortable position. "Besides, aren't those two adorable?"

"That's a new word for it."

"Oh, stop."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

The whiny tone of voice was her friend fishing for a laugh or another scold she could turn into a jape, but Lyarra was too exhausted to manage more than a smile. Walda and Ser Morton Wyl were adorable. Walda's flirtation was of the most blatant sort. As soon as he approached her she claimed his thin arm and held the man firmly against her side. She then proceeded to press her hip, breast, thigh, and curve of her belly along that side of him with every single step she took. When they sat, she leaned forward until the great canyon of her cleavage swelled towards his face with every gesture. She specifically waved her hands about and clapped in such a way that her flesh would tremble with every movement.

Ser Morton Wyl was locked up in constant sexual enthrallment. Like a moth to a flame or a whippet in fruitless pursuit of a rabbit inside a glass house, he followed in a jerking flurry of eager movement. In a purely physical sense, Walda had the poor, twitchy, high strung fellow in a state of constant nervous arousal.

In terms of the emotional, Lyarra knew she shouldn't have been surprised at just how well Walda was doing at getting the man to fall in love with herself as well as her body, but she was. It wasn't just because of Walda herself; Walda Frey was easily likable. She was friendly, she stayed true to those who treated her well, and she was brave in ways few could understand. She was also a survivor.

But what Lyarra supposed she'd forgotten was that Walda was a Frey. She'd grown up in the Twins and not only had that shaped who she didn't want to be, but also shaped who she was. Just as she'd gathered her cheerful nature around her like an iron cloak to refuse the slings and arrows of her kin, she'd also watched and learned. Frey women _understood_ men, and they understood men of all sorts.

To Lyarra, Ser Morton Wyl was, well, _annoying_. He was a bit arrogant thanks to his position and the fact that he actually was a decent warrior and skilled enough knight. He was also high strung, nervous, had a habit of chattering on in an awkward way and saying awkward things in a rude and presumptuous manner at times. He could be overly familiar with just about anyone he met and didn't control his habit of staring past people he didn't want to talk to even when he was talking to them.

Guiltily, Lyarra also had to admit she thought he was ugly. His face was pinched and too sharp. She knew this was a bit hypocritical as she was a Stark by blood and had her father's long jawline and fairly sharp features apart from that. Gwyn's face was also sharp-featured, though in a leonine way. To Lyarra, Ser Morton's face was bony in an unbalanced manner. His chin jutted out too far and his nose was unbroken but still looked a little crooked from most angles. His lips were so thin as to nearly be nonexistent but wrapped around a very wide mouth, his eyes were a little buggy, and he had a tendency to leave patches of the skin under his jaw unshaved in a messy way that he then scratched where others could see.

Lyarra could understand how he'd love Walda. She could! What she couldn't understand was Walda's deep enthusiasm for him. It wasn't even feigned or entirely mercenary. Then again, Lyarra supposed that meaning well, as the man did seem to, might be quite enough for a Lady of House Frey. It wasn't as if a lack of beauty and social graces compared to the sins of most of the men of that House, was it?

"She's doing a masterful job." Nymeria commented. "I mean, everyone else is too busy thinking of how they would never run a seduction as Lady Walda does to stop and take a longer look at how well its working."

"She knows exactly what she's doing." Allyria agreed, her tone a little rueful. "I tried for him a few years ago. Clearly I didn't know what he wanted either physically or in company."

" _You_ tried for him?" Lyarra was shocked.

"Wyl is a very nice castle on a very nice trade route, Princess, and at the time I had Gerold to worry about. He spent far too much time near us and Edric's youth made my nephew vulnerable."

A moment of silence followed before the conversation picked up as the room considered what had made Lady Allyria the strong woman she was. Her parents had died within her first year of life. Her brother had raised her, but an injury from the Greyjoy Rebellion had slowly killed him over the following years. His own wife died in the interim, and Lady Allyria Dayne had taken on more and more of the running of House Dayne and Starfall to protect the young Lord Edric as time went on. There was little wonder that Lady Allyria Dayne was a woman to take seriously.

"Well, Ser Morton's not subtle, he's clearly randy, and he's socially awkward." Gwyn pointed out while Lyarra closed her eyes for a moment and reached out her hand to pet the scarred and battered cat curled up in bed with her. "Who better to understand that sort of man than a Frey?"

"You tried and he rejected you?" Nymeria repeated Gwyn’s sentiment and gave Lady Allyria a long, long once-over. "Clearly the man has no taste. Might I offer to console you?"

"Do not make passes on people while you're in my bed."

"Yes, Princess."

"So says the lady who is cuddling Nym in bed."

A ripple of amusement went around the room and Lyarra sighed and looked around, wishing that a number of things were different. Physically she was exhausted and terribly uncomfortable. Emotionally she was stretched thinner than scraped parchment. Her ladies were trying, but there was only so much even the closest of friends could do.

A fortnight before, they had arrived at the Water Gardens for Lyarra's lying in. She'd brought her household with her and left Sunspear and its court in Prince Quentyn and Princess Tayla's hands with no small amount of glee. Or, rather, Lyarra would have felt glee if she and the rest of House Martell weren't struggling through the process of accepting and trying to understand the full meaning of what the affair of the torc had revealed.

The Water Gardens themselves were wonderful. A masterpiece of soothing, cool marble in shades of blushing pink, gleaming white, and warm cream, it was the most beautiful place Lyarra had ever seen. A pleasure palace behind a high sandstone wall for safety, it was set around a number of natural springs which were held to have healing magics from being called into existence by Nymeria when she landed on Dorne's shores. The minerals in the water, at least, kept it crystal clear and soothing, which necessitated constant cleaning of the pipes and fountains to avoid build-up.

The main theme of the architecture was openness. Arches and columns and windows of great size that opened onto courtyards filled with pools for swimming and cascading fountains were everywhere. Light got into every cranny and nook, but was diffused by shade everywhere that could be desired.

Oberyn's Quarters here were different from those in Sunspear, and not just because of such divergent locations and styles. The general feel of his quarters at House Martell's seat were dangerous, dark, and sensual. Here, the only thing that had remained the same and traveled with them was Oberyn's massive round bed, and the ebony masterpiece looked out of place.

Princess Elia had decorated these rooms for her brother while he was out adventuring in Essos as a young man. It had been done in such a style, Lyarra later found out, as a prank. Oberyn didn't favor the plain whitewashed walls trimmed in blonde wood or the clashing colors in the floor tiles or the sedate, blond wooden furnishings. However, first he had kept the room as it was to vex his sister by pretending he loved it. Then, because he couldn't stand to see it changed when she left to wed, and then was lost forever.

Had Lyarra known that she might have had them stay in Sunspear for the delivery even if it was against tradition. Staring around himself every time they slept or he came to see her and looking at his sister's shadow wasn't good for her husband. Being in the castle of his childhood where everything reminded him of his sister wasn't good for her husband. Her one attempt to gently suggest they move rooms had gone poorly. Not wanting to upset her so close to her due date, her soulmate had pretended he thought the idea silly and unnecessary rather than hurtful and then had gone off to spar and refused to speak of it again. 

It was a theme that had carried on for the last fortnight. Oberyn attempted to spare her stress, but instead only ended up avoiding her. He went out, hunting, riding, or working in some manner and she almost never saw him. The distance did nothing to dull their connection and the sense of soulmate's suffering just left her feeling utterly helpless. She was at the mercy of the child she carried and the blanket of exhaustion it had draped over her body and simply couldn't chase after her husband. She also had no idea what to do in the face of Oberyn's emotional wounds all ripping open after so many years as barely-healed scars. 

Lyarra had no idea how he could tolerate the marshes at the moment, either, and worried that he chose to hunt there. She'd been pleased to discover that the heat and sun of Dorne had its own charm to her. Humidity, however, had become her enemy. Her hair was currently bound in a single braid reinforced by periodic use of plain linen ribbons to try and contain her curls' wild frizz. She was wearing nothing more than a light cotton shift that went down to her thighs, and hang modesty. She was still sweaty and uncomfortable and felt more like she was drinking the air than breathing it.

Three days before, a storm of frightening proportions had hit the southeastern tip of Dorne. Oberyn and Doran had received it calmly, ordering the wooden shutters heavily barred and all of the drains opened to their fullest at the Water Gardens when they got the raven from Salt Shore announcing that a hurricane off the Southern Isles was on its way. What followed had left Lyarra rattled. A blizzard she believed she'd handle well and howling winds did not scare her, but she'd been left incredibly grateful for the fact that the Water Gardens' construction wasn't nearly as delicate as it seemed. 

The cleanup proceeded apace, but kept Oberyn in the saddle. The orange and lemon groves around the Water Gardens had needed considerable work and all of the irrigation canals were flooded and filled with debris. The gates put up to keep lizard lions out of them were, in many cases, broken, and necessitated removing the reptiles that had invaded from the marshes to the south as the gates were repaired. This led to hunts, which kept her husband distracted. It had also left her with a pile of cured lizard lion hide she was curious to work into boots and such later, but kept her worried and separated from her husband when she needed to speak with him. It had the same effect on Prince Doran who had written to Prince Quentyn to ride out along the southern coast, leave court to his wife and send their few lingering noble guests from afar to the Water Gardens to be the Prince's guests once more.

Now Lyarra, who had wanted to spend that time with her soulmate even before they had so much they needed to speak of, resented more than a little that even the birth of her child was being overwhelmed by events beyond her control. So instead she was currently located inside her suite of rooms with her ladies moved into the bedchamber to keep her company so she could be more comfortable. It wasn't a bad arrangement, save for the bugs.

Called 'storm midges' they appeared only after storms at the tail end of summer and autumn. They were another sign of the change in seasons that was soon to be upon them. The tiny swarming bugs lived for less than a sennight but appeared in clouds of millions after such a storm. They died just as quickly, waiting for the next storm to emerge.

Thankfully, they didn't bite, but they crawled everywhere, leaving tiny sticky footprints that added to the misery of the humidity. You couldn't walk outside without wearing a layer of them. You couldn't eat without your food being coated in them. Walda's only explanation to how she and Ser Morton could stand walking in the swarms had been a shrug. Apparently it had to do with growing up on rivers.

"Gwyn, could you get my lap desk?" Lyarra reached backwards to smack at where her gooddaughter was laying right against her back. "Could you write a letter for me, Nymeria? I don't want to move."

"Since you haven't driven me out of the safest possible place from the midges and I technically serve you, I believe so."

"Your generosity is appreciated."

Lyarra's deadpan earned a few snickers and she watched the production required to fetch a lapdesk in the current situation. It would have been funny if it weren't so pitiful. As it was, it moved in a set of clear steps.

 _Step #1:_ Every adult in the room stared at each other. That meant Allyria, Gwyn, Nym, Sarella, and Septa Mercy all looked around trying to determine if someone else was going to leave their current sanctuary first and spare them.

 _Step #2:_ Allyra pulled rank to make it clear she wasn't going to do it.

"Lady Gwyn, I believe that you're closest?"

 _Step #3:_ Whoever she targeted either gave in or didn't.

"If I stand up beads are going to go _everywhere_." Gwyn's voice was full of false mournfulness as she gestured to where her legs were folded, tailor style, in her seat with little pockets formed in her skirt filled with beads and sequins. Gwyn was embroidering with her hooked needle and whatever the crimson damask creation she was working on would be some day, it was complicated. "Lady Iryna can do it."

 _Step #4:_ Lyarra stepped in to save Iryna, who was easily talked into things.

"Iryna's sleeping and if you wake her up you'll wake up Dorea and Loreza. Leave them be."

Just as Gwyn's chair was wrapped in mosquito netting suspended from one of the many hooks in the ceiling via a short cord, so too were both of the large carpets on the floor stacked with cushions wrapped in the stuff. Ser Manfrey's daughter was sprawled across the cushions on one such rug, her skirts shamelessly rucked up to her thighs for better airflow. Loreza's head was pillowed on one of her thighs as she slept, her stuffed manticore shoved away as it was deemed too hot to cuddle such a thing. Dorea was perhaps two feet distant on the rug sleeping as well, splayed out like a starfish. Both of the littlest Sand Snakes were, like Lyarra, dressed only in the thinnest of shifts and had abandoned wearing a proper dress.

The only lady in the room less concerned with propriety was Ghost. The direwolf had sprawled in a dark corner of the room. Intent on becoming one with the cool marble floor tiles, the white direwolf had only moved to wag her tail when Gwyn had generously used several rocks as weight to stretch out yet more netting hanging from the ceiling to create a "tent" of netting for Lyarra's partner to hide in. The midges were just as annoying to animals as they were people, and Ghost's water bucket had been moved over to keep her company not long after she'd settled in place and refused to move.

 _Step #5:_ The Septa proved herself a far better woman than Mordane ever was.

"I'll get it, Princess."

"Thank you, Septa."

"Oh, don't worry, it's little trouble and I wanted to get up and stretch as it was. 

Septa Mercy was a woman who'd once likely been very pretty. Nearly thirty now, her skin had been bronzed by the sun and care lines were etched at her large gray eyes and at the corners of a small, sweet mouth. A couple of fine white scars touched her face, and far more around her hands and arms. At some point four of her fingers had been broken and two were crooked as a result. She wore simple, light, pale gray cotton robes that were modest but not suffocating in the heat as most Dornish Septa's did, and kept her hair covered with a scarf wrapped about her head, rather than a whimple.

Quiet by nature and gentle, there was a core of something in the woman that wasn't steel or iron, but some other supple thing harder to identify and no less enduring. To Lyarra's shock, after a lifetime of disliking the only septa she'd ever known, she'd found she liked the woman who cared for and taught Oberyn's youngest daughters. To Oberyn's shock, his four youngest daughters all felt the same way and had not worked to run off this septa as they had the others. Septa Mercy, who never spoke of her past and firmly insisted that she'd been born anew in service to the Faith, actually lived up to the humility, piety, and kindness that Lady Stark had insisted were the core of the Faith and Lyarra had only ever seen as a less obvious form of arrogance in Southrons.

Septa Mercy had been settled on another of the carpets underneath her own mosquito netting. Sarella was seated beside her. Between them was seated Obella with her own lap desk, working at her lessons. Lady Elia Sand had traveled after the wedding to visit her kin at Hellholt. Lyarra had been saddened to bid Theon farewell in that moment too. It was for the best no matter how she felt. He could not stay in court where he was likely to be seen, and Hellholt was loyal, isolated, and the Uller's had experienced their share of mad relatives.

Lord Harmen and his brother had shown nothing but kindness and a kind of casual acceptance to Lady Alannys' odd behavior and fey manner of speech. Lyarra had been relieved and touched when they promised Theon would be given more martial instruction and sailing lessons upon the river and Lady Alannys every courtesy. The fact that they were doing this as much out of glee at the idea of furthering a 'scheme against the Usurper's will' as in obedience to their Prince's orders was just who they were. Theon had seemed pleased, though, as it was a hint of stability after so much fear and uncertainty in his journeys.

Lady Allyria had her own chair situated as Gwyn's was and had been playing her own oak lap harp for them, but had stopped. The beautiful goldenheart harp, made in the Northern style, that Lyarra's husband had gifted her when they arrived in Sunspear was sitting unused on top of a chest. Lyarra's stomach got in the way of playing now, though he'd seen that she had lessons in Sunspear while it was still comfortable.

Lyarra was sprawled on her side of her and Oberyn's bed. She'd stolen two pillows to support her stomach and had another one between her knees. Two more supported her head and shoulders. That had left one pillow for Nymeria to claim as she lay on her back, snugged up behind Lyarra and idly played with a necklace of coral beads she'd taken off when she'd climbed into bed to hide behind the double layer of netting present there. The other layer was draped fully overtop of the bed, pooling on the floor. The inner layer layer was suspended from the top center of the bed's canopy and draped around the mattress.

Mercy slipped out of the netting around the rug she was sharing with Sarella and Obella and went to fetch the lap desk. It was brought over and carefully passed through the netting to avoid the swirling insects outside that were alighting on the septa as she worked. Unfortunately Obella chose to complain loudly enough about the midges that got back into the netting in her sanctuary with Septa Mercy that it succeeded in waking the two littlest snakes.

Balerion the Black Cat, rescued from the Red Keep after many, many years let out a loud, _'mmrrrt!'_ , as the little girls whined and sat up, rubbing their eyes and awakening Iryna Martell. Then, he lithely slithered down off the bed, abandoning the soothing rumble of a purr he'd kept against the curve of Lyarra's stomach, and going to comfort other important ladies present.

" _Balerion!"_ Loreza giggled. "No, kitty!"

Lyarra smiled as she watched the cat wriggle under the netting over the rug and climb all over the littlest Sand Snake. He bumped his broad head against hers and blinked his only surviving eye before all but toppling her over as he crawled over Loreza's shoulder to drape his full length across Dorea's lap. The look of helpless delight on Dorea's face melted Lyarra's heart every time. Dorea Sand had coveted a kitten or cat as a pet since a little girl. Oberyn, doting in all other ways, had gifted none of his daughters a cat.

"Are we doing something?" Iryna asked, rubbing a hand over her face and blinking her pale lavender eyes 

"No." Lyarra said bluntly. "I'm too fat, the midges are too thick, and the weather is miserable."

"As you say, Princess."

Iryna laid back down and rolled over onto her stomach, clearly intent on going back to sleep. Lyarra was considering throwing something at Iryna for blatantly flaunting the ability to roll over. She was also considering trying to sleep when she winced as her son decided to shift in her womb. He jammed what was either a knee or a leg up under her other organs painfully. Then her body further betrayed her as her stomach and back tightened painfully.

The false labor pains, random, sporadic and fairly weak, had been happening for several days. Despite this, Oberyn had checked and informed her that it was just a few warnings. Her real labor had yet to start. As Lyarra hauled herself up to go find the privy again she reflected that she was very eager to see her son for so many reasons. Proving everyone wrong about his gender might actually be the least of them at this point. Why were all the men of House Martell so difficult?

* * *

**Winterfell, The North, 298 A.C.**

Ser Domeric Bolton arrived at Winterfell with a sizable contingent of guards, a tired smile upon his face, and a pronounced limp. His reception was all a man could hope for in such a situation. Ser Brynden Tully had never wanted that, not in precisely the same way at least, but there were times when it made him nostalgic for his younger days when other choices were still open to him. Not that he could have made them in good conscience, but nostalgia didn't exactly name logic it's lord, did it?

It was impressive that Sansa managed to hold herself back as was appropriate during the formal greetings, but Blackfish was damned proud of the girl. She'd made leaps and bounds in the moons of her betrothal to the Bolton knight. He'd watched her face down and deal with Lady Barbrey Dustin's razor sharp tongue, and of late she'd waded into another battle. One Brynden was almost ready to consider something of a conquest.

"-old badger den collapsed under my feet during a fight with some brigands in the hills. It's nothing." Domeric was explaining as he stood there, his expression strained. "My father-."

"Lord Bolton lives, Ser Domeric." Robb assured him. "He improves greatly as well, though not enough that Maester Luwin felt him up to the walk here from the Guest House. I want to hear about these brigands, so allow me to escort you there as well. 

Brynden weighed his options. The greeting party was breaking up. Cat, responsible as always, was seeing the guards off with other servants and kind words to their rooms and informing them of the dinner hour. Most knew it from previous visits with Ser Domeric to Winterfell, but those that didn't would learn now.

"Ser Blackfish?"

Brynden looked down at his great-nephew and squire, who clearly longed to go after his elder siblings and hear Ser Domeric's tale. Then he shook his head regretfully. Laying a hand on the boy's head he answered. 

"Ser Domeric will want to speak with his father privately. Your brother's acting Lord of Winterfell now, and Lord Bolton is his banner. He has ample reason to go see him again and speak to him of his health. Lady Sansa shall call the man father one day, so your sister does the same. _We_ don't."

"Yes, Ser Blackfish."

Brynden fought the urge to smile. Whether it was Rickon or Sansa calling him _'Uncle Blackfish'_ now or his squire's adaptation of the name, he liked it. Part of it was schadenfreude. His brother had called him the _'black goat'_ of the family. Those were words meant to make him less of a Tully. He'd claimed his place back by declaring himself a black fish, and held onto it since. Hearing his niece's children, another generation, use Blackfish that way was just another reminder that no amount of silent treatment or years of anger, even if they'd now been put aside, changed who he was. He was Ser Brynden Tully of Riverrun, and he'd done his family proud. Hoster had spent no little time in their youths insisting that Brynden would shame their name, but he hadn't.

"There are others we can ask anyway." Blackfish nodded and removed his hand, watching his young nephew grin brightly back. 

_"Sam!"_

Samwell Tarly was still fat, but Brynden noted with approval that he was getting some muscle underneath the blubber. According to the boy, he'd once been called 'fat as a leviathan' by someone in the Reach. Brynden took note of how piss poor Lord Randyll Tarly's fatherhood and teaching skills were by using it as a moment to show both boys how better to earn loyalty and encourage improvement. He had reminded the fat young lord that leviathans were feared by every sailor in the sea. They might be peaceful and tranquil if you left them alone like all whales were, but that could change in a split second. A second that saw the largest beasts in existence shatter the hulls of stout ships without a moment's thought.

Brynden knew that the boy would never make a great warrior. He'd probably never be a knight at all. He didn't have the mentality for it. What he did have was a great mind and a growing vein of practicality in his nature that Brynden knew would make him a decent warrior for the sake of survival, if nothing else. Plenty of great lords weren't amazing warriors, and with luck they'd get Sam's head out of his ass and his insecurities before he lost the chance to be one of them. That and enough sweat and hard work and he'd keep himself alive.

"Hello, Bran." Sam grinned openly despite the dried sweat and mud on his face at seeing Bran. "Did you finish the book I suggested?"

"I did, though some parts confused me a bit." Bran's enthusiasm turned into a more thoughtful look. "Uncle helped me read through the parts about the battles and explained the strategy, but he told me to ask you about this."

"I'll answer if I can."

Brynden walked slowly up to where they were, wanting to give the two a moment. He could have answered the bit they were speaking of. It was a political question, and in some ways a moral one, but it was hardly like teaching such things wasn't part of taking on a squire. Being a knight with a squire was part brother, part father, part general, part maester, and largely just one of the joys of Brynden's life. Doing it for kin made it even better. He just wanted to hear what Samwell Tarly would say.

"At the end, when there was a Great Council to choose the king, after all of the earlier Blackfyre Rebellions, Ser Brynden Waters was Hand of the King. He let Aenys Blackfyre come and then he executed him."

"He did."

"Sam, that was _murder_."

"It was certainly trickery, whatever else it was. What confused you about that, Bran? Bloodraven had a great reputation for being canny and coldblooded in his decisions for the sake of the realm. Have you not read about him before?"

"Not really… but what he did isn't what confused me. It's how the writer wrote about it!"

"Ah, that might have been different. You like to read knightly histories. This one was written by a more politically minded man. He'd have a different opinion."

"He wrote it like King Aegon V was _wrong_ to send him to the Watch for it, but it was murder. Wasn't it just? Justice isn't an option!"

Brynden listened as Tarly considered his answer.

"Well, first, I think we have to consider what you just said. Are you _sure_ justice isn't an opinion?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, in Astapor, it's entirely just to make a man a slave. It could be because his mother was a slave or his father, or because he owed someone money, or because he was captured in a war, but to those who live there, slavery is completely just."

"But slavery is wrong."

"In _our_ opinion, yes, it's very wrong, but people believe different things. You and I believe we're right. They do not. Here, where it's our home and we make our laws, we can say it is unjust and make it that way because everyone agrees, but the world is a large place, Bran, with many different people in it."

"But murder's different. Isn't that unjust everywhere? And just to punish it harshly?"

"Yes, to some extent. However, people consider different things murder. The Blackfyres had revolted against the rightful king and, _legally_ , that means their lives are forfeit. Some people might say that Aenys Blackfyre should have expected the trick, or never come, or officially given up his inheritance, or something similar. Different people will think different things."

"I… people _are_ different." Bran thought about that, nodding, but still frowning. "Still, if the King's word is law and that's why it was alright to kill him, King Aegon V's word about sending Bloodraven to the Black would be just too, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, if you believe all of a King's actions are just. King Aerys II certainly proved that wrong, if Aegon the Unworthy didn't."

Blackfish deliberately stopped to examine the stonework in a doorway that had nothing to do with anything at all just to keep listening. He loved the sound of a child learning something. Especially the hard lessons. Hearing an older boy teach a younger boy was better still. It gave him hope for the future. Besides, he was horrifically certain that lessons in moral ambiguity were going to become very important to his squire all too soon. There was a reason they were reading every scrap of Northern legend they could get their hands on and tales of sorcerers and those suspected of such.

"Then what did the author think?"

"He's been dead fifty years so I'm afraid we cannot ask him, Bran." Sam shook his head. "What do you think?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you!"

"As you say!" Tarly laughed, his hands up in defeat at Bran's exasperation at being given questions in the place of answers. "I would say this. Maester Drusis wrote the book. He was a political pragmatist."

"That means he believed in doing what worked whether it was right or wrong?"

"Basically. What it really means is he put the safety or the realm and peace and stability over honor. He saw Ser Brynden Waters the same way. Bloodraven was a wealthy and powerful man, Bran, but he was also a very accomplished knight in the normal sense. He could have wed and established his own line, built a castle, and behaved in a strictly honorable fashion and established a House just like many others in the South. Just like mine built themselves up from Andal adventurers in a way."

"... but instead he stayed as Hand of the King and helped his family." Bran spoke next, sounding unsure. "He just kept working for the King and being Hand or Master of Whispers, right?"

"Correct."

"Some people say he did it for power and because he liked to run things."

"Maybe he did, but I think if you look at the kingdom before he came and after he was sent to the Wall, you will see the difference, Bran. Whether he was good, just, or honorable isn't what the book is about, really. It's about whether the kingdom as a whole was better off with Bloodraven gone, because while it might cost a king honor and goodness, sometimes that's a sacrifice a good king makes for his people."

"Well spoken, Lord Samwell." Brynden stepped forward, seeing a good time to interrupt their speech. "And a good choice of books. My squire enjoyed it."

"I hope you did as well, Ser Brynden."

"Reading isn't my favorite activity, but it was well-written. Tell us about your encounter with the brigands."

Sam made a face, but at Bran's sudden effusion of excitement the heavyset boy offered a weak smile as they moved inside and headed towards the bathhouse. Brynden would come up with an excuse to take the boy elsewhere when they reached it. He knew of the older lad's embarrassment about his body and wouldn't force him to lead them on some round about way to avoid it. For now, though, he wanted to hear the tale.

"It's fairly simple. After we went to Moat Cailin and I had dealt with the scroll translations for Torrhen, we rode to the Rills."

"To pick up the horses that are going south? 

Brynden stifled a hint of guilt there. They were supposed to be going south as well. The deal between House Ryswell and House Tyrell for horses was a good one for the North and the South and would improve horseflesh in general, Brynden was sure. It was also a chance for him to visit Riverrun again and for Cat to take Bran and Sansa down to see their grandfather before he grew sicker. It was a chance for Brynden's brother to see more of his grandchildren before he _died_. Brynden didn't intend to go, however, and he wouldn't be taking Bran. Cat just didn't know it yet.

"Yes, they're grazing under guard in the hills above Moat Cailin now."

"I cannot wait to see my castle." Bran was all eagerness. "How much is done?"

"None of the inner keep, I'm afraid, but both outer walls are up as well as the foundations of all twenty towers. Two towers are also about half-raised. The three towers still standing were taken down to use their stones to reinforce the walls, but that's just as well. Right now everyone's living in a wooden longhouse" Sam smiled, pleased. "The Valyrian recipe your sister sent for liquid stone is amazing. To think, sand, quicklime, and small stones could-."

" _Brigands?_ " Blackfish reminded him and Sam coughed.

"Yes, of course, Ser. As I said, Bran, the brigands were a simple thing. They wanted some of the horses so they attacked the guards and were pushed back. Then, I think they assumed that the party riding North to Winterfell was in such haste that it could be an easy target. It wasn't and they all ended up killed in the fight."

"Was it a good fight?"

"I'm not of the opinion that _any_ fight is particularly good, Bran."

"Opinions again! How did Ser Domeric get hurt?"

"Just as he said. He stepped into an old badger den and it collapsed underneath him. He went down and twisted his ankle, but he'll be fine now that he can put it up for a couple of days with hot compresses. It probably wouldn't be as bad as it is but we were moving with great haste. How exactly did Lord Bolton get injured? Ser Domeric didn't say."

Bran looked unsure and it was all for the better, in Brynden's opinion. That one was going to be a knotty explanation and it was going to take time. He'd prefer to have backup from Robb and Cat on it because it was going to draw all of House Stark into explaining it to their children.

"We'll discuss that after dinner in your mother's solar."

"Or Robb's, Ser Blackfish?"

"Depends on who decides to host this evening."

"Aislinn said she was feeling much better today."

"Then we'll see."

They bid Tarly goodbye at the last turn before the bathhouse so the young man could get cleaned up. Then he took Bran out for their daily practice in the yard. Normally he'd only have practice in the morning hours or the afternoon. He didn't like to push a boy so young so hard daily, but to split it up and have a proper number of rest days as well. The longer time went on, however, the more urgency Bryden felt. What was worse was that underneath his boyish exterior, Brynden couldn't help feeling that his squire felt the same.

"I'll have my ninth nameday soon."

"You shall."

Brynden watched as they walked towards the yard and the boy struggled with something, stopping to stare at the gate to the lichyard and the Broken Tower. Brynden had agreed the boy could climb it, but only with a harness and rope in case he fell as he did in the dreams. He had, earlier, but his triumph hadn't been what he'd expected. Instead he'd come down calm, but introspective.

_"I thought it would be like the dreams and I'd learn something. Instead I just climbed it, Uncle, and nothing happened. Why do I only see things like that in my dreams, but they happen in real places and real things are part of them?"_

By all the Seven's Mercy, if the Seven existed in truth, Brynden Tully couldn't answer that. It raised the hair on the back of his neck to think of it. Then it fell down with guilt in the pit of his stomach at his doubt in his own Gods to roll around with the mess of broken faith that lived there. He was a _knight_ , he'd sworn sacred oaths before the Seven. He was also a warrior and a practical man. One who had watched others who swore the same oaths break them time and again and never suffer. Were the Seven real if all their oaths were meaningless?

Now the Old Gods… Brynden shook off a chill at the thought as he got Bran set up with a bow and arrows. At his age they were the most effective weapon he could give him. He'd worked hard to get the draw weight up and while it left the boy tired he'd gotten him a bow that, if not powerful, would kill a deer, man, or normal wolf if it came at you. All you needed was to know how to aim it right.

He was afraid that Bran was going to need that, where they were going. Brynden thought himself mad for it, but he also had reached a point where he couldn't in good conscience avoid it. It had been nothing more than a dream from the Old Gods that had saved them all from the Plague. Well, that and a Dornish Prince with some grasp of animal husbandry, but the point was that it was _Brynden_ that had first discovered the cure when a savage Mountain Clansman had come down and told him he had a way to save them all. Everything started from that one point and while he felt shame now that he'd only written to Hoster of it and then let things spiral out from there, he knew he couldn't do that now.

Bran Stark had dreams that _came true._ Whether it was a summer snow that was coming and crops that needed to be taken in, or Aislinn's pregnancy, or even Lord Bolton languishing in a bed in Winterfell, the boy was being shown things. They had to address that.

Brynden Tully had been raised in the Seven's Light, but what power did they have, what reality were they part of if the Seven Who Were One never _acted_? If knights like Ser Gregor Clegane were allowed to live without the Warrior striking them down with ignoble wounds, as the septons said what use were knightly vows? Then there was the corruption of the Faith. They'd betrayed their people in trying to discredit the inoculation for the sake of their power and…

Brynden Tully leaned back against a pillar and told himself he was too fucking old for a damned crisis. There were things that were real and things that weren't. It was his duty to protect his family. He'd sworn to defend women and children. He'd also, ultimately, accepted an even greater burden when he'd taken that goatherd at his word.

Apparently Ser Brynden Tully was now the Old Gods' private knight. He didn't think Bran had his visions because of his uncle. That was arrogance. The boy was a Stark, his coloring aside, and they'd been the Old Gods' favorites since the beginning of time, practically. Old Nan told stories of them having magic powers once. Bran the Builder had supposedly wed a Child of the Forest. It made more sense for Bran to end up with Green Dreams and be chosen for some great future than it had a goatherd, that was for sure. No, Brynden was just the one who was supposed to get him to wherever he was going alive, so he lived long enough to do what the Old Gods wanted. That made a terrible amount of sense given some of the things Bran had seen.

Everything had a price. Brynden had learned that young. He was a famed knight, but he'd earned that in battles so ugly and dishonorable that he'd had as much vomit and shit on his armor as blood. The War of the Ninepenny Kings had been a bloodbath. Nobody had controlled their men. There'd been no clear leader once Lord Baratheon had died. At that point rape and murder had become a byword. Not even the poor slaves were safe.

Then there was the Rebellion. That had been better. Lord Arryn and Lord Stark, even though he was young, weren't fighting a truly dirty war. Neither would the Kingsguard who were trying to hold the Crown's forces together. There was dishonor, there always was some, but it had been much better. At least, it was until they got to the Sack of King's Landing. The Old Lion had held his foot soldiers outside the walls and sent the knights in. You would have thought that leaving the smallfolk levees out of it would have saved lives, but it had been the opposite. The city was ravaged and in the Red Keep itself Princess Elia and her babes had only been part of the carnage. All while Lord Tywin Lannister stayed in his command tent and gave orders, his brother with him. Brynden had the disgusted feeling that the latter was specifically to allow such carnage. Ser Kevan Lannister was a decent man.

Everything had a price. Brynden didn't doubt that the goatsbane inoculation had one too. The Old Gods had saved Westeros, though nobody below the Neck hardly cared about them or their trees before they did it. They'd chosen to do it and he wasn't fooled. The Old Gods were going to ask for something in return, and they'd ask it from him as he was where it started. Looking at his nephew, smart, young, and innocent he swore he'd try and keep the cost as much on himself as possible.

For now, he had a lot to do. First, he was going to have to convince Cat that he was staying at Winterfell with young Robb because he felt the young Lord could use his help and assistance. Bran would stay with him, of course, and Rickon would stay because Robb might have to ride out and there must be a Stark in Winterfell. If Brynden had to go with him it might not end up being Bran, after all. His niece then needed to be convinced not to say this was why he was staying to Robb.

Because subterfuge gave him a headache, Brynden then had to convince Robb he wanted to stay because he felt Bran deserved a chance to ride out with a knight and a small party of guards not in the company of his mother. Responsible as he was, Robb Stark was still only five-and-ten and would remember being nine namedays old. He'd allow it, though he'd couch it in something safe. Brynden already had the proper task: taking messages and making a visit to Last Hearth. The Umbers were loyal banners and while they'd be going North, they'd also be going inland and would be in the heart of the realm. Robb would allow it, and then Brynden would see that when they left Last Hearth they kept going North.

Bran Stark was being sent dreams of the Wall by the Old Gods. Brynden still woke up some nights in a cold sweat, thinking of what would have happened had he ignored the Old Gods last message. Whatever awaited his squire, they couldn't ignore this one, either.

* * *

**The Water Gardens, Dorne, 298 A.C.**

"You are neglecting your wife."

"I suppose I should listen to an authority on the subject?"

"Yes."

Oberyn regretted his part in the exchange as soon as he said it. He had nothing against fighting dirty, but he loved his family. The brother he spoke to perhaps carried no greater wound than the collapse of his love for his wife. Mellario was and had always been Doran's weakest point, and yet he accepted those wounds and carried them for his duty as readily as any other. Still, Oberyn did not turn away from where he was aggressively scrubbing at the sticky film left by the midge clouds upon his skin.

He knew he should do it. Doran was not wrong. As usual, his brother spoke plain truth and all Oberyn needed to do was admit it. Oberyn could haul his naked ass out of the bath. He only had to walk through the dressing area and into his suite. Lyarra was sleeping on the bed there, most of her ladies having gone off to other tasks and duties, and only Allyria Dayne remained, quietly reading. Oberyn had peeked into the room and saw that his two youngest daughters had joined Lyarra in the bed. He had been so tempted in that moment to just crawl in with them, bath be damned, and take the full comfort of their presence.

Oberyn couldn't allow himself that comfort. Not when he thought about his sister. He'd known for years that Elia had been failed, but for all that time it had never been _his_ failure. Now he could no longer say that.

"It was my duty, Oberyn. _I_ was the one with the power." Doran's voice was quiet as his hand landed upon Oberyn's head, resting in his hair as it once would have decades before when Oberyn, having caused some harm or grief to a friend in a surge of anger, had taken himself away from the others at the Water Gardens in shame. "Do not punish yourself for my crimes. I was her brother and her _prince_."

Oberyn clenched his eyes shut and the muscles in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth.

"Brother-."

"The letters were for _me_ ." Oberyn hissed and stood up, glaring as water sluiced down his body, ignoring his nudity easily as he stood with fists clenched at his sides. Standing in the marble tub it gave him several inches of height. Though Doran had improved enough to stand and walk short distances with the aid of a heavy cane, Oberyn now looked down on his elder brother. "We both know it, Doran, cease your platitudes! Yes, we were both her brothers, but I was her _knight_ . I swore myself to her before I knew what it meant. In a thousand games I saved her, in a dozen tourney's I crowned her. You were born chained to the Sunchair, but _I was not!"_

"Oberyn-."

"I barely had returned from a fucking pleasure trip to Essos! I was moping in isolation and anger because she'd dared defend the silver prick to me after Harrenhal! _You_ answered our uncle's call! _You_ were who rallied our forces-."

"And promptly ended up with a broken foot, uselessly watching from afar as everyone died." Doran's tone hardened. "Yes, Oberyn just as you did. It was too little, too late. I had not cared what happened beyond Dorne's borders enough. I did not wish to play the Game and so I had but few spies. I knew little and as a result our sister only had _one_ vector for sending out a plea for help. One quickly destroyed by a single petty man's greed and impatience."

"Doran-."

"No. Oberyn, you are younger, stronger, faster. You are a better warrior. You are far better at vanishing into any city than I am. You have contacts from your wanderings at war, play, and bed that could have helped you even in King's Landing. I am aware of this. We cannot change the past, but the future has _never_ offered us a better chance to claim justice for it than now. Cease your wallowing and be _useful_."

Oberyn swallowed and truly looked at his brother. The sun had gone down and the midges settled with it. They did not fly at night. So there was no flying, speckled haze to separate himself from what he saw or distract him. 

It was a cloudy, moonless night outside and though a breeze moved readily through the wooden screen over the window, no light was offered there. Lit only by a single oil lamp the small room that housed the large bath was dark. With so little light Doran's gray hair looked black again, a short, inky cap held over his skull. His brother's sharp features etched deeply with lines of pain and worry were carved further by shadows. The black eyes they shared were dark pools of secret, glinting with sharp-edged promise. The cane he leaned upon a sinuous black pillar and his wine colored robes dark shadows with limned in bloody refraction where the light caught the rich material.

"We have things to discuss, Oberyn, with your wife as well."

"You wish to talk to my pregnant wife at this hour?"

"Considering your noise has likely woken her and your daughters, your piety is questionable, Oberyn."

"I am not who accosted someone in the bath at an ungodly hour!"

"Had you not been out claiming to do my bidding while harassing lizard lions earlier this discussion could have been had at a better hour." Doran rose. " _If_ you believe yourself composed enough for it."

Oberyn could hear his heavy breathing, twisted out of his control by his anger, slowing. Focus always came to him in battle. This wasn't a battle, but it might hold the promise of one.

"You mean it? This is not another of your endless-."

"Oberyn, how often do I ask to speak to you in such a fashion, alone?"

Abashed and feeling his ears heat, Oberyn grinned instead to deflect.

"More often, of late."

His brother offered him a smile as he turned and began to make his careful way out of the room by the servant's door that went through the dressing rooms; utterly unbothered by doing so.

"Even princes can learn, brother. Mayhaps you can keep that firmly in mind and your life will be easier."

Ignoring the sally, Oberyn climbed out of the bath and dressed.

Doran proved correct again, however, despite Oberyn's hopes. He was abashed to see Ghost standing by the doorway into the room. The direwolf's long face was clearly unamused and her red eyes regarding him with steady disapproval. Nudging past the direwolf and into the room, Oberyn had to work for entry as Ghost did not feel like moving her considerable bulk for his convenience.

"Lyarra?" Oberyn clearly saw and heard his two daughters' sleepy movements on the bed outlined in the light of the lamp in his hand, as well as his wife slowly pushing herself into a sitting position. "I am sorry to wake you-."

"Is Uncle sending you away again?" Loreza asked, sliding out of the bed and fighting her way free of the netting to impact his shins. "Papa, don't go!"

"He can't take you again, you just got _back_!" Dorea added her protest, joining her sister.

"And you've been so busy!"

"For Quentyn's wedding!"

"Where we only got two pieces of cake!"

"And had to go to bed early! 

"You can't go!"

Oberyn put down his lamp upon a table and picked them both up, marveling that they had grown so large. His heart ached at the memory of their births. It seemed but yesterday he'd held them in his hands, ushering them screaming into the world and laying them on his paramour's breast, knowing they would grow up wrapped in the love of two people who understood each other so perfectly.

"Girls, hush." Oberyn pressed a kiss to Loreza's cheek and then Dorea's forehead. "Papa isn't going anywhere right now."

"You've been hunting a lot, and riding other places."

"Just for the storm." In truth, Oberyn had ridden out for few duties; the southern banners were more than capable of handling such things themselves. Fresh guilt hit him for neglecting his present loves in his anger, but… the anger was still there, threatening to pull him under like quicksand. "I shall not ride out again until your little sister is born."

"It shall be a little _brother_." Lyarra's tired, but amused voice came from the bed. "However, I am pleased you shall be close, husband."

The lack of censure was worse, Oberyn reflected, than a scolding. Ellaria would have done the same, but not without making him acknowledge his callous behavior first. Oberyn wondered if the Gods hadn't had just enough sense to chain him to a young woman so easy to love, if they must chain him to anyone, that he would feel guilty even for her own mistakes. She should have taken him to task, instead. He grew selfish in his grief and anger. The monstrous boy he had been had grown into a better man, but the seeds he had grown from remained and Oberyn felt less shame over that than he should 

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong but don't you have your own beds to sleep in?" Oberyn had learned with Nymeria that if you let a child sleep in your own bed too long you never got them out.

"Lyarra said we could!"

"She did, Papa!"

Oberyn sighed as he recalled he'd never really told any of those stories to his wife. He hadn't wanted to cast any of his children in a bad light to his soulmate. In retrospect it might have been a good idea to mention Obara's early habit of hiding food in her room until they'd had a pest problem as a result of her early childhood hunger in Oldtown. Or, maybe, told her of allowing Nymeria and Tyene to sleep with him as babes and then having to fight to get them to sleep on their own for nearly a year before the habit truly took hold. He made a mental note to mention how his youngest three had been such picky eaters that it had been difficult to get them to nurse.

"That is most generous of my princess, but now it is time to go back to your beds." Oberyn turned. "Lyarra, are you well?"

"I have succeeded in sitting up. I cannot reach my feet to free them of the sheets."

Oberyn's daughters giggled and Dorea wriggled to get down and help. He allowed her to do so, but also walked over to take in his soulmate's appearance. He'd felt her anxiety and exhaustion through their bond, but had been too self-involved to do anything about it. Now he found her looking up at him with an aspect every inch as tired as you would think of a woman so close to delivery. Her youth only made that and her worry for him more apparent in her open, expressive gray eyes.

"Well, let us get you free." Oberyn leaned over and made short work of the sheets Dorea was leaving more of an encumbrance rather than less of one. Then he kissed his wife, gently, and ran a hand over the warm curve of her belly. He couldn't resist teasing. "My ninth daughter is clearly eager to come into the world. Wait here and I shall be back shortly to help you dress."

It was a sign of how tired Lyarra was that she didn't protest that she could easily dress herself. Refusing to rush, even at Doran's request, Oberyn saw to his daughters. He'd shamefully neglected his family and so after seeing the girls in bed, kissing them both goodnight, and getting them drinks of water to tide them over, he checked on his other girls. Obella had yet to get her own room. She and his two youngest snakes were still in the nursery together. When he had tucked in Dorea and Loreza, he had performed the same office for Obella despite her protests that she was too old for such.

All of his daughters, save Elia, were present in the Water Gardens for the birth of their sister. He had excused Elia both so she could spend time with her Uller family and because he knew how hard it was for her. She had been old enough that she'd been allowed to assist with Loreza's birth and memories of her mother were proving difficult for her. She felt no hostility for her father's soulmate, thankfully, but that did not equate to a desire for any particular closeness.

Obara was asleep in her bed and Oberyn smiled to see her quarters. His daughter had spent the first twelve years of her life with very little, so despite her spartan temperament her room was a mass of carpets, cushions, and comfortable things. Pretty wall hangings, colorfully woven baskets, and other objects gave it a bright, lived-in look. Nymeria's room was more minimalistic. She had a long, sturdy table along one wall with vials, bowls, and compounding equipment spread out, spotlessly clean. An apothecary's cabinet stood beside the table. Two trunks and her bed were the only other furniture. He smirked to see that Nym had tempted a pretty serving girl to join her and was pleased she'd made a point to invite her tryst to stay the night.

He almost missed Sarella in her quarters. Had he done so, it would have necessitated a trip to where his erstwhile friend, Willas Tyrell, was staying in the guest quarters. Sarella had merely fallen asleep in the large armchair by her window. Knowing her back would thank him later, he coaxed her out of the chair and into her bed, taking the book from her lap to put it upon one of the shelves in her room as he did so. He was glad to see her oil lamp had been set upon a stone topped table and had burned down on its own.

That accomplished, he returned to his own rooms. Ignoring the memories that lingered in the light, airy styling of the room he found Lyarra awake and dressed. Taking in the simple linen dress and the chill that could settle on the desert at night, Oberyn went into her dressing room and retrieved a shawl for her. The lightly woven cashmere object was warm, but not heavy and Lyarra accepted the fringed blue rectangle of fabric and draped it over her shoulders and arms as he led her towards Doran's solar.

* * *

**The Red Keep, King's Landing, the Crownlands 298 A.C.**

Ser Barristan Selmy was known as a solemn man. Once, he'd been more joyful. There was a time when, of all of the Kingsguard, it was Barristan the Bold that children would flock to for stories or attention. Warm to all and open, with an honesty that was as indisputable as his honor, Ser Barristan was approachable.

He had been approachable. Ser Barristan found himself putting more effort into resurrecting what had once been a natural gift than he had in years. A mad king, a war lost, a princess and her children murdered, a drunk king, a Kingsguard fallen into disrepute under his own leadership; these things had stolen away Ser Barristan's ease of speech with others. He'd wondered too often if they thought ill of him. If they didn't, he sometimes wondered why. He'd made so many choices that, in hindsight he regretted. He didn't know how he could have done otherwise in good honor in most cases, but the fact remained that he'd made those choices and they'd come to grief.

Now, Ser Barristan had within his grasp some small way of repairing them. He need only figure out how to address it without making things worse. It was that weighty realization that had kept his tongue still as he investigated the accusation against the Queen. It seemed far-fetched in some ways, and terribly possible in another. Ser Barristan was himself a Stormlander and he'd never given much thought to the old tales that Argella Durrandon had laid a curse upon her line so that, while the Durrandon name was gone, all of Orys Baratheon's children would carry her blue eyes and black hair 

Barristan found himself reevaluating the nursery story. King Robert had lost several of his bastard children to the Plague, but many others had been spared. Of those, every single one was black of hair and blue of eye. Barristan had seen seven such so far ranging from a suckling babe to a strapping lad who was the very image of the king. Even the girl children, who showed the most deviation, bore a stronger resemblance to their sire than any one of the royal children had.

Ser Barristan had always cared for children. He had given up the hope of fatherhood in pursuit of being the perfect knight, and of doing his duty, but that didn't mean he didn't still find their innocence and laughter pleasant. He'd adored Princess Rhaenys'. Watching her scamper about with her little black kitten had been a joy in a time otherwise marked by madness and hungry green flames.

Prince Joffrey had always been a quarrelsome, strange child, who seemed unable to grasp concepts such as compassion and fairplay. Barristan blamed the Crown Prince's broken mind partially on nature, for the boy had always been strange around other people. He had taken overly long to be freed of diapering, had been slow to talk, and reacted strangely to loud sounds or fast movements. A larger part of what he'd become, however, Ser Barristan blamed on the Queen. When a child clearly had trouble understanding, you sought to teach them to understand. You did not spoil them endlessly, inflate their heads with foolish arrogance and entitlement, and then teach them that cruelty is a right and a sport besides.

Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen had not been like that. The little princess had been sweet, mannerly, smart and compassionate. Little Prince Tommen was too young to really have shown the man he would be, but he was kind and shy. Barristan had liked both of the younger royal children and had hope for the dynasty he had pledged himself to serve improving thanks to them some day.

Wracking his mind however, Ser Barristan couldn't think of a _single_ Baratheon feature either had worn in life. Both had the same blond hair and green eyes their mother did. They owned the same chin, cheekbones, nose… the list went on and on. They looked like Lannisters and nothing else, and while Lannister blood was known to be strong even in cases where another blood clearly showed through, there were usually other features to be attributed to the parent who the child resembled less.

Barristan left the tavern where a young prostitute held an infant not even a year old. Barra, as she'd named the girl, had fine dark hair and the Baratheon look. Barristan thought he saw a bit of a resemblance to Lady Shireen there, though she looked more like an older girl known to be King Robert's who he'd seen a while before. The poor prostitute thought the king might actually want to see the child again, later.

He ignored the sounds of the city around him as he moved, though he kept aware. Far less crowded than it had been before the plague and less violent than it had been after, King's Landing was still no safe place. He kept his hand on his sword hilt and his purse. Even though few were likely to recognize him with his beard braided and wearing simple leather armor over mail he also kept his eyes open to make sure he was not shadowed by the City Watch or someone else reporting to another master.

 _"Perhaps the worst part is that Lord Tywin's done so well."_ Barristan thought to himself as he looked around.

With matters in the Vale closed Barristan had returned to the city. He had often traveled between on the King's Business, regretful as each of his duties seemed to interfere with the other. His duty to protect the king, his duty to investigate this without causing a bloodbath, his duty to fight for the king… everything was coming apart, Barristan felt, when it should have been coming together.

First, as Master of Laws, Tywin Lannister had torn apart and rebuilt the Gold Cloaks before Jon Arryn had even died. Barristan had no doubt as to where their true loyalty was given as a result, but he couldn't deny that the job had been done well. The men were behaving in an honorable fashion and the city guard was running as it should. As Hand of the King after Lord Arryn's death he'd gone further. Food shipments arrived on time as they should. Brigandage was still a serious problem, but no longer close to the city, for regular patrols kept those roads clear enough that trade was not disrupted. Meetings had been held with the King's creditors and it seemed that the taxes might finally be sorted out as well, and in such a way that, with moderation, the Crown could continue onward without the fear of armed conflict with the King's Essosi creditors.

Barristan returned to the Red Keep quietly through a postern gate. He went to the White Sword Tower via the hallways servants favored and changed back into his armor. All of his thoughts lay heavily on his mind. His certainty that Queen Cersei had cuckolded the king warring with the knowledge that it was the Queen's Father who had stabilized the realm. How could he in good honor do anything but directly report this? How could he do so with any decency when the only possible resolution was a bloodbath? There had to be some way...

"Lord Commander Barristan?"

"Enter." Ser Barristan answered the scratch on his door.

Ser Wynsell Cheston was not a handsome man. At one-and-twenty his nose had a severe crook it in from a tourney loss. His hazel eyes were mirky and his long, sandy hair, looked perpetually dingy. The third son of a second son he was lucky to have become a knight at all, and had thrown himself into it with all of his heart. When Boros Blount died in a charge in the Vale, Barristan had been all too happy to appoint the man. He had distinguished himself in combat and the tourney circuit and, though rather humorless, his honor was unimpeachable.

"Yes, Ser Wynsell?"

"Ser, an emergency meeting of the Small Council has been called. The King shall be there presently and the others are already assembled."

Barristan stifled the urge to curse and quickly picked up his sword belt from where it lay across his bed, buckling it in place as he walked.

"May I ask the emergency?"

He was chilled with the momentary thought he would be called to task for his investigation. He didn't fear personal consequences. He was too old a soldier for such things. He feared shame, and he feared that he wasn't finished with his work.

"Some news out of the Westerlands, I think, Lord Tywin just got a raven from there and called the meeting."

They entered the Small Council chamber together. Ser Wynsell immediately took up a post outside the door. Barristan nodded to the other men assembled in the room.

"Forgive my tardiness, gentleman."

"Easily, Lord Commander. We are awaiting the King."

Lord Tywin's speech was easy, but clipped. Clear unhappiness lined his face, though only to those who had worked long enough with the man to see the tiny indications of emotion present underneath the iron control he held himself under. Beside him Pycelle looked deeply nervous. Next to Pycelle sat Randyll Tarly. The reason he had taken that seat was clear. It allowed an empty seat between himself and Lord Varys. Lord Celtigar sat next to the Master of Whispers, looking unhappy with the placement despite it being common. Barristan took his own seat, oblivious to the looks he was being given. He was not unaware that it was a social faux pas to arrive after the Hand of the King. He merely didn't see it as important, and so didn't devote time to thinking of it.

In a demonstration of the fact that Robert Baratheon had been devoting more time to his duties, the King arrived shortly thereafter. Barristan was actually heartened by his actions. The King had returned from the Vale invigorated somewhat, and as such had put more effort into his duties. This morning he had actually sat court to hear grievances; he had not done so in several years. Yes, he had spent the early afternoon at a brothel afterward, and his time on the throne listening had left him impatient and his decisions had at times reflected that, but the King had been upon the Iron Throne not the Hand.

Likewise, there were no plans for celebrations. Instead, the King devoted the time he did not spend with prostitutes or drinking to gathering information on the banditry that still plagued the kingdom. War was the King's first love and Barristan was pleased to see that he might rekindle the romance in a way that was good for the realm. Planning to lead short forays with the Kingsguard and small assemblages of knights in fast strikes against the camps in the Kingswood was an excellent start.

"Let us start this, then." King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, walked in and sat in his ornate seat heavily, gesturing with a hand. "Lord Tywin, this better be a damned emergency to haul me here for this."

"I called this meeting, Your Grace, to inform you that the Small Council shall sadly need a new Master of Coin." Lord Tywin spoke calmly despite the King's short-tempered display. "Lord Leo Lefford is dead."

 _"Dead?!"_ Ardrian Celtigar's shocked expression was predictable, given that the two lords had gotten on well. "How so, Lord Tywin? He was in perfect health when he left. He went to the bridal bed, not a battle?"

King Robert snorted, hard.

"Depends on the bride. Some might prefer the latter. Lord Tywin?"

"I am afraid that the problem of brigandage is more severe than first thought." Lord Tywin's expression was grave. "I have sent my brother Kevan with a large party of knights to handle the brigands who murdered Lord Lefford as he returned to Golden Tooth with his bride, and have issued more orders yet to expand patrols within the Westerlands. Not all locations have so many well-built and easily traversed roads as we do, however, and I expect travel to grow more dangerous rather than less as Winter approaches."

"The White Ravens have gone out. Fall should be upon us shortly." Grand Maester Pycelle added, his voice nervous. "Reports will go out as they do to the smallfolk via the Faith in the city. I do wonder how it will be addressed, though, in those places where the Faith has lost hold..."

"In those places where the Old Gods are honored, Grand Maester, I assure you that all Lords shall do their duty and see their people rightfully informed."

"I meant no offense, Lord Tarly. I was merely wondering how, with mechanisms changing so-."

"I'm _well_ _aware_ of what you meant, Grand Maester."

"Enough, Grand Maester." Robert Baratheon growled and then reached into his doublet rifling for a moment before pulling out a folded letter with a gray wax seal and turning towards the Old Lion. "You wanted to call this meeting to speak about the brigands, then? 

"Yes, Your Grace." Lord Tywin nodded. "As well as the matter of filling Lord Lefford's seat. I would suggest that Lord Celtigar move from Master of Ships to Master of Coin. Lord Velaryon can be brought back when he returns from Dorne, or another chosen to fill the other position as Lord Celtigar's abilities allow for him to manage either."

Barristan ignored Celtigar's puffed up thanks in response and looked to the King. It appeared his new interest in rulership only went so far. He waved a hand in response and responded without thought 

"Yes, Lord Celtigar will do." The King sneered, flashing wine-stained teeth through his wild black beard. "But I don't want that swaggering seahorse here again. The man's family is the next best thing to the damned _dragonspawn_. Leave the Velaryons out of it. Get Redwyne to do it, and if he cannot leave his fleet in the West, get a Valeman or some such. I'm done with these Crownslands dragonfuckers clinging to the past like I'm not even here."

Lord Celtigar, whose pale hair and lean features declared easily how much Valyrian blood his family carried and who was closely allied through many generations to the Loyalists families of Blackwater Bay, barely held in a scowl at that. Lord Tywin responded calmly, however, and the King went on.

"I shall see to it."

"Good." King Robert nodded once and waved the letter. "I got this letter yesterday from Young Robb Stark. My namesake had meant to catch his father if his ship stopped here on the way down to that blasted sand pit, but as Lord Stark bypassed the Bay to revictual on Tarth the letter came to me."

"How kind of Lord Robb to address the letter so that, should his father not get it, it would come to the King's hand!" Varys offered cheerfully in his strange alto voice. "Surely he must think of you in quite a familial manner to do so."

The letter very clearly was addressed to no-one but Lord Stark. The King's face reddened slightly, but he pushed onward. Barristan frowed, his eyes cutting to Grand Maester Pycelle, who looked elsewhere. The Lord Commander seethed in the blatant disregard of the maester's vows to respect all post sent through their ravens and hands.

"I have the brigandage covered. There's no need to speak of it." The King went on and looked at all of them. "This is going to cause problems, however, and you should be the ones dealing with this shit before it gets worse."

"May I ask what it is we are dealing with, Your Grace?"

"Two days before this letter was written, Lord Roose Bolton was attacked on the road between White Harbor and Winterfell."

"I would think that an _internal_ matter for House Stark to manage." Lord Celtigar wrinkled his nose.

"Aye, maybe it would be, were those who attacked his party not calling themselves the _Warrior's Sons."_

Silence overtook the council room until Ser Barristan chose to break it himself.

"Perhaps details of the event would help us understand more clearly, my King? 

King Robert nodded once, sharply.

"According to young Robb's letter two shiploads of men came North and landed in White Harbor. They claimed to have men and supplies heading to the Wall. Among them were a number of armed knights with the coin to purchase Northern horses at the harbor. They were last seen riding North in one large group."

"Where they attacked Lord Bolton, my liege?" Varys blinked. "How irregular. I was aware that funds and two Faith owned ships, the _Even Measure_ and _Righteous Cause_ , had sailed North but was under the impression they were bound to the Wall with mostly a crowd of disenfranchised septons from the Reach whose flocks had rejected them."

"If that's the case, the homeless septons came armed." Robert looked at the eunuch in disgust. "I suppose even you cannot always be right, though I would remind you, Lord Varys, that is why you are here."

"Quite so, Your Grace. I _cannot_ apologize enough for my egregious failing. May I ask if Lord Bolton survived?"

"The creepy sot lives." The King confirmed, hit tone ripe with disgust. "Several men claiming to be on their way to the Night's Watch joined the Bolton Party. They attacked in the dead of night. They're all about as dead as you'd expect for a group stupid enough to try and assassinate a _Bolton_ surrounded by his own men, but that's not suprising. The two who might have lived to tell us what the fuck is going on fell on their swords."

"Were they carrying banners? 

"No, Lord Tywin, they didn't have a damned thing to show themselves guardians of the Faith but a habit of screaming impreciations against the Old Gods and righteous shit about the New while they died. Apparently there was also an attack at a small holdfast south of Cerwyn. They burned the wooden keep, stockade, and the godswood."

"This cannot be born!" Randyll Tarly's outburst came with a furious light in his dark eyes. "First the Faith breaks every tennant of decency and smothers _our_ _children_ in stone lies, and now it seeks to go to the North and attack the true gods where they're still held dearest? Your Grace, call on the High Septon! This must be answered."

"It must." Barristan agreed, though he felt ill at the thought. "This could lead to war."

"It could lead to chaos." Lord Tywin interjected, his tone sharp. "Which may be the goal of whoever has started this."

"I don't give a shit what their goal is. House Baratheon's, _my_ closest allies have just been attacked by people claiming to represent an order disbanded on the Crown's orders two-hundred years ago."

"Two-hundred-fifty, actually." Grand Maester Pycelle muttered woodenly, then quickly stuttered onward as the King's furious gaze fell on him. "I only wished to illustrate the great gulf here, Your Grace, between what we know was the actions of the Faith itself with the High Septon's support and what could be an action by literally any party bent on sowing discord among your allies."

"This could be the doing of the Sparrows." Celtigar, generally a supporter of the Faith and an enemy of change, muttered, scowling. "They're useless, lackwitted peasants displaced by the Plague who've never made any attempt to settle and support themselves, begging alms instead and preaching how the Old Gods defied the Seven's attempt to purge the world of sin."

"Very possible, Lord Celtigar, though it should likely be noted that the Sparrows are at least in some part made up of septons who were driven away by those they once preached to." Lord Varys offered. "Those who, it might be added, the High Septon would not take back and support…"

"And who have all the more reason to cause trouble." Randyll Tarly spat and would have said more but one of the King's meaty fists impacted the table, causing the candle branch upon it to jump and the papers to rustle.

"I don't care, I want to see it _stopped_. I won't see more of this unrest, not from the Faith." King Robert stood up at that. "I'm an anointed knight, and as King, I'm Defender of the Faith but I'll be damned twice over if I let them interfere with my kingdom. If they could sit on their thumbs while the Mad King cackled on the Iron Throne and burned a Lord Paramount and his heir alive, they damned well shouldn't be doing anything now. Lord Hand! 

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Do whatever you want and see the Small Council seats filled. Handle whatever fucking mess happened in the Westerlands as you please, it's your business. I expect to see the High Septon in the Throne Room tomorrow at first light, am I clear?"

"Entirely, Your Grace."

With that the King of Westeros stood up, shoving his chair back with a scrape and quit the room. Lord Barristan looked out and caught the eyes of the two Kingsguard who were shadowing him. Both nodded slightly as the King turned the opposite direction that Barristan had expected and the Lord Commander held in a wince.

Every day Barristan grew more convinced Queen Cersei had committed treason, though he had yet to discern with whom. Despite this and the fact he believed that, if so, she must lose her head, he was still regretful to see the direction the King's feet had taken him. Though Queen Cersei gave every evidence of being a far calmer, humbler woman now that she had returned from that Mother House he could not imagine that the King's current mood would suit either of them when her husband arrived to take his rights. Tired, but with duties left to perform, Ser Barristan the Bold sat down once more with the rest of the Small Council and tried to piece together what they would do to deal with the latest crisis looming over the Seven Kingdoms.

* * *

**The Water Gardens, Dorne, 298 A.C.**

Lyarra kept her hand on the longer fur at Ghost's neck as she settled onto the settee in Doran's solar. The Prince was comfortably seated in a red leather chair and she spared a moment to be grateful that the pools of the Water Gardens had allowed him enough relief from his gout that he could now walk short distances. For the first few days after they had arrived no-one but Oberyn and Captain Hotah had really seen him as he isolated himself from company to take the waters.

She was even more grateful that her husband had taken a few moments to tuck his daughters in. That was the reason why she had allowed the littlest Sand Snakes to come to bed with her. Oberyn was rather strict about allowing children to sleep with him. Cuddling was fine, stories were excellent, but when it was time to sleep he liked to keep his children in his own room. Lyarra herself had certainly never known the comfort of going to a parents' bed after a nightmare. Her father might have comforted her, but Lady Stark would have done the opposite.

In this case Lyarra felt it was Oberyn who required the comfort. His restless and volatile emotional state had kept him too much apart from his family, save for arguing with Prince Doran. She'd been suffering from it and his daughters had suffered from it, but she felt that Oberyn himself was suffering from it most of all. If she brought Loreza and Dorea in and allowed them to sleep with her, then he would have to spend time with them when he returned. Even if all he did was tuck them in, Lyarra had felt he would benefit from it.

Oberyn had benefited. She could feel the slight relief in tension inside of him through their bond. Now, seated beside his insolent sprawl on the settee at her side, Lyarra curled her fingers around his wrist and idly rubbed the Mark there and waited for the Prince to speak.

To Lyarra's surprise Prince Quentyn entered the room a moment later. With him came Lord Anders and Ser Cletus Yronwood, Lady Alyse Ladybright, the Lord Treasurer of Sunspear, the three eldest Sand Snakes, and two figures that left the hair raised along the back of Lyarra's neck. Lyarra had no idea who the tall, tanned, well-dressed brunet man who came in with Gwyn was, but she had not seen him before. Prince Doran, however, obviously had.

"Well, this is an interesting get together. Close family, loyal retainers, and an unusually dark Westerman dressed like a Merchant of the Reach." Oberyn drawled, looking around. "Brother, let it not be said that you do not know how to assemble an interesting midnight assignation."

"This is not an orgy, Prince Oberyn." Anders Yronwood shot Lyarra's husband a hard look. "Can you not be serious?"

"Peace, Lord Yronwood." Prince Doran's response was calm, level, and painfully dry. "After all, if it were an orgy, it is not as though a Marked man could properly enjoy it."

Oberyn glared at his brother. Lord Yronwood smirked. Prince Quentyn elbowed his foster brother when Ser Cletus snickered and Lady Alyse shook her head before turning to the Prince.

"Shall I get the materials?"

"Allow Lady Gwyn to do so. She is, after all, where this began."

Lyarra shot her friend a concerned look but only got a pleased, bright-eyed smile in return. It did not entirely reassure Lyarra for that look had presaged a thousand suggestions for how to torment Lady Stark that Lyarra had been forced to work very hard to curb. As there was but one thing that Prince Doran could be referring to that would bring such a group together, it worried her further… though part of her didn't care. Resting a hand on her belly Lyarra thought of the Queen's efforts to harm her child and kill her and waited quietly beside her husband.

Oberyn's posture had gone from languid to attentive in a split second as Gwyn vanished off to the side. Lyarra watched as she opened the lid to a decorate trunk to reveal a large iron chest. The clicking of a puzzle lock sounded and Gwyn, dressed in a simple sleeveless gown of green cotton, made three trips back and forth to spread things across the table.

When she was done three stacks of plain ledgers sat. Lyarra knew these to be Petyr Baelish's private books, liberated from King's Landing with the help of Lyarra's youngest sister, The Hound of all people, and the gratitude of the people of King's Landing toward House Martell. Beside them was the Guild's Ledger. That great book, bound in gray leather, sat placidly beside the thinner volumes as if tens of thousands of lives were not written between the pages. Several neat stacks of loose parchment were made as well.

"Quentyn, be so good as to get the rest."

"Yes, Father."

A second chest was opened, revealing again the secret iron heart of it. Out came more ledgers, loose papers, journals, and signs of work. Gwyn came back and sat down, this time on Lyarra's other side, wriggling in next to her and all but vibrating with excitement and what Lyarra realized was pride.

"Thank you, Quentyn, Lady Gwyn." Doran looked around at all of them and Lyarra was surprised when, instead of waiting he laced his hands together over the cotton blanket draped across his legs and the notoriously quiet prince continued to speak. "As my brother said, this a gathering of those I consider most loyal and most ready as well as most necessary for what we are all about to hear. Everyone present knows of the others and has met those in this room save one. Master Irec Dale, would you care to introduce yourself?"

There was more than a hint of nervousness as the young man rose and bowed, but he did it with the expression of a man on a quest from one of Sansa's songs; resolute and committed in every way. He was tall and lean, broad shouldered, and had a tanned face and curly, sun-touched walnut colored hair. His eyes were a bright greenish hazel and he was handsome, in a bland sort of way. His features weren't distinctively cast in favor of any particular region of Westeros 

"Thank you, Your Grace." The young man was perhaps five years Lyarra's senior but spoke confidently. "I'll have to beg your pardon, if my speech isn't as gentle as what you're used to. I am not a lord or knight or quality of that sort. I am a journeyman engineer and surveyor with the Miner's Guild of the Westerlands, and it was on account of my looks and lack of accent that I was chosen."

"That is all?"

"Well, Prince Oberyn, it didn't hurt that I know when to speak and when to keep my mouth shut."

Lord Yronwood now looked curious indeed, but it was Cletus who spoke first.

"Can I be honest and say that I never expected to sit down in a room with any Martell and find them hosting one of Tywin Lannister's people?"

Quentyn looked rather long-suffering at this, but also ready to smile at his foster-brother. Lord Anders looked rather more put-upon. Lyarra, however, deeply appreciated it. In the depths of her Northern heart sometimes she really just longed for someone to stop being sneaky and just say what was going on.

"I'm more curious as to what the Miner’s Guild is beyond the obvious." Nymeria cut in, her dark eyes sharp. "Father? You know, don't you?"

"I do." Oberyn nodded. "However, I believe that Lady Gwyn or Master Dale would tell the tale far better than I."

Lyarra sat quietly as Dale deferred to Gwyn and with Prince Doran's permission, her friend retold the tale she'd told herself and Oberyn in a tent, a day's ride outside of King's Landing. When the tale was finished and Good Ty Hill's deeds known, as well as the fact that the financial and military might of the Westerlands was tied up in the Guild, Lyarra looked around. Lord Ander's lean face, his sandy hair topping a map of freckles his son also possessed, was as sharp and eager as a coursing hound on a stag's trail. Beside him, his auburn-haired son grinned like a well-fed fox. Oberyn, had returned to his languid pose of earlier, his hand petting her belly as their son occasionally prodded his fingers with a heel or elbow. Lyarra wasn't fooled; underneath his lazy sprawl the Viper's instincts were coiled tightly.

"I have been serving as messenger between House Martell and the Guild." Master Dale explained in a low, earnest tone. "My last trip west I carried with me the preliminary findings of your efforts to decode the Master of Coin's books. This includes the transcribed copies you sent to us and I confirmed the authenticity of the copying thereof. Since then we've also had people working on them, and while we have not managed to fully decode Lord Baelish's system, the Guild has decided that there's enough to proceed."

"You've started an audit then?" Gwyn was almost breathless. "Or, no, you'd have to announce it first?"

"As I told Prince Doran when I arrived, we gave the traditional seventy days notice the day I left, and I made good time here. There should be a moon left before the Winter Fund Vaults are opened."

"And you honestly have the strength to carry through with this?" Lady Alyse murmured, her expression shocked and concerned. "Against your sworn lord?"

"Begging your pardon, my Lady, but the Lord of the Rock is also sworn to us." The young surveyor replied. "If a Lord breaks their oaths to their smallfolk, I don't see how the smallfolk could be held accountable to theirs."

Lyarra felt it was nothing but just to say such. Beside her Gwyn smiled to hear it. She felt Oberyn's bemused wonder, however, and took note of Prince Doran's stoic expression. Neither were truly concerned by such sentiments. Both were fair men by nature, if not always kind. Lord Anders, called the Bloodroyal, and so long cemented to his own lineage and it's importance looked shocked at the idea. Lady Alyse was clearly uncomfortable.

"The Lords of the Rock would never have become more than petty kings if it weren't for the Guild." Gwyn spoke into the gap. "Just as House Martell required the loyalty of not only Nymeria's Rhoynish followers but many Houses and desert tribes who chose to flock to their banner because they promised stability and safety. The same is true for House Stark, who may have won their lands through battling lords, but have kept them for ten-thousands years by keeping their smallfolk safe, happy, and fed during the cold years of Winter. The Guild is nothing but a living safety net to emphasize that fact."

"This is Westeros, and we have no slaves." Lyarra agreed quietly, prompting a surprised look from everyone in the room.

"I read a little about the Westerlands Miner's Guild at the Citadel." Sarella spoke, her dark eyes curious. "They have a lot of information, but it seems to mostly be only partially correct or supposition. I had read that they were directly under the control of the Lords of the Rock and their bannerman."

"I wonder who told the Maesters that?" Gwyn muttered and Dale snorted, only to look embarrassed to have uttered the rude noise in such company.

"The fact remains that this is the situation we now find Westeros in." Prince Doran spoke again into the lull that followed, effortlessly gathering everyone's attention with his calm, quiet voice. "We have since uncovered more information, Master Dale. My brother and son's experience with languages and Lady Alyse's talent with numbers and the patterns they form cannot be praised enough. Nor Lady Gwyn, who made a great effort to explain anything particular to the Guild's ledger that we found confusing out of context."

"We're just grateful for House Martell's help, Your Grace. The Guild _never_ forgets their friends."

"Or those who betray them?" Obara asked. "So.. it's certain that Tywin Lannister was embezzling?"

"Entirely." Quentyn interrupted, voice totally sure of himself as he turned to Lady Alyse, who also nodded and added her own words.

"The sums that the Crown received from the Lannisters exceeded what they could possibly have, on their own, provided. The full tally of the sums given out during Lord Tywin's lifetime, combined with the losses accrued during Lord Tytos', outstrip the Old Lion's lending capacity."

"Which means he had to get that gold from somewhere." Lord Anders turned and looked at the Guild Representative. "You're really going to bury his entire family alive?"

"We leave children too young to know out of it, Lord Anders. We're not monsters." Gwyn frowned.

"There won't be anyone bricked up in the mines that we don't have some good proof knew, or should have known." Dale assured them all, scowling. "It'll be Lord Tywin, though, and likely others. The Queen was the recipient of too much gold not to have known. Nobody raised in the Rock could be that stupid when it comes to the economy in the Westerlands. Probably her brother too since the Kingslayer's thick as thieves with the Queen. Ser Kevan's his right hand and Lady Genna - I'm not sure but she runs the household at the Rock. He hates the Imp… We're not savages, there will be a trial."

"And if they claim trial by combat?" Oberyn leaned forward and Gwyn rolled her eyes while the well-traveled surveyor answered.

"We're smallfolk, Prince Oberyn, we don't do that. Either they're innocent or they're guilty, and there's only one punishment for cheating the Guild."

"The question is now, who gets to watch you do it!" Nymeria added, grinning sharply and elbowing her elder sister, gaining a grin from Obara as well and a chuckle from her husband that chilled Lyarra's blood almost as much as another thought.

"What about the King?"

Her words brought everything to a standstill. Lord Anders' side-conversation with Prince Quentyn and Lady Alyse about inflation or the opposite that might occur as the result of a conflict in Westeros' main source for precious metals and gems ground to a halt. Oberyn's inquiry about the fate of Tywin's various loyal knights cut off. Gwyn's attempt to ask something of the other Westerlands native drifted away. Lyarra ended up looking directly in Prince Doran's face, however, as he smiled at her.

"Spoken like a true princess, sister." Prince Doran praised her and Lyarra felt her face heat as the prince looked about. "An excellent question, don't you think? 

"Even as strong and organized as the Guild seems to be, they cannot possibly stand against the other realms if they unite behind the Usurper." Quentyn stated flatly, promptly Gwyn to look away and Dale's face to grow serious.

"We hope that the King will see it as an internal matter. We plan to present our evidence to him as well and have people hidden in King's Landing to do it when we make our move, Your Grace. Whoever the Guild sees as the next Lord of Casterly Rock will swear to him, just like Lord Tywin did."

"Yes, but they won't bankroll him." Oberyn snorted. "The Stag is a fat, shambling wreck. Even if he did manage to handle the succession crisis in the Vale you cannot believe one little war is going to turn him into a good king or make him fiscally responsible."

"Things have improved substantially, however, in King's Landing since Lord Tywin became acting Hand." Doran shook his head. "He has organized the Gold Cloaks and eliminated much of the corruption. He has removed the more egregious of the Queen's guards and replaced them with better and more competent knights of his own choosing, and the King has returned as well and brought with him an equal number of knights from the Stormlands. I even have reports that the Queen herself has adopted a calmer and more obedient nature around her husband. King Robert Baratheon's reign is more secure than it has been in four years."

"That may be true." Lyarra paused as she spoke, then put her chin up. "But the King, whatever else he may be, thinks himself a true knight and an honest warrior. He hates the monotony of doing his duty as a King and that is a curse on his crown and legacy. Aside from that, however, he would not condone thievery."

"He condoned the _rape_ and-."

Lyarra laid her hand on her husband's wrist as he began to speak, feeling his anger spark and pushing past that.

"Oberyn, let me finish. I'm not speaking of the man he is, but the man he sees himself as. If brought to his attention, the King has little fondness for Lord Tywin and years of hatred for his wife. He'd cast them both aside if he considered them shameful."

Lyarra looked around at all of them and remembered when she'd first realized what she had to now fully commit herself to. When, in King's Landing, she'd realized that Oberyn was not going to tell her father of the ledger, Lyarra had been upset. All of her life Lord Stark had been just that; both her father and her lord. Not only had he been the arbiter of her life, but he had also been the source of all justice in her small world. He'd been the center of her allegiance and family.

The Mark on Lyarra's wrist had pledged her to another by the will of the Gods themselves. She had given her word before a Heart Tree and the Old Gods of the Forest to take Oberyn Martell as her lord and husband before all others. She was not Lyarra Snow, nor even Lyarra Stark now. She was Princess Lyarra Martell and the babe planting his foot under her diaphragm and wriggling inside of her just drove the point home further. This room was everything different from what she'd known.

Dorne was hot and the North was cold. Here they stood in the South, as far south as you could be and still call yourself Westerosi and hear Westeron spoken. In the North the Mountain Clans still spoke the Old Tongue in the deepest parts of the hills and forests. She'd grown up amidst a family with the blood of kings who called themselves lords and didn't bother with the trappings of knighthood and spoke frankly. Here, in a pleasure palace, Lyarra sat in a room with princes, lords, and ladies and all of them were playing the Game of Thrones.

Part of her wanted to hate it so badly. That anyone would play a Game which decided the fate of so many. Looking at Doran, however, for whom every day was one of pain and suffering but who still sat for hours and worked in silence over the endless paperwork and dull duties that were what truly made a ruler great… Lyarra couldn't hate him. How could she do so when she loved Oberyn so and he was all passion and anger and thirst for vengeance? Lyarra understood; what was more important to a Northern Heart than justice? What was more essential with Winter looming than good rulership?

Tywin Lannister had betrayed his people. It was only just that he answer to them. King Robert had failed as a ruler and now matter what he did now, the common people were likely to pay. Lyarra wanted to avoid a war more than anything, she didn't want her family - any of her family - caught up in it. But this wasn't something she could stop, and even if she could she wouldn't. At best, perhaps she could mitigate it.

"My father is coming here, to Dorne, to be with me while I give birth." Lyarra didn't mention her mother, it wasn't important to such a crowd even if it was vitally important to her. "I beg leave, Prince Doran, that we tell him of this. We can use my father's sense of justice and the King's friendship with Lord Stark to turn him in favor of seeing Lord Tywin brought to justice."

"I agree." Lady Alyse nodded.

"If she can do it, it might work." Obara nodded and Nymeria seemed to consider it.

"You think your father _would_ do so? 

"Lord Stark does not like Lord Tywin." Gwyn agreed immediately. "He took me in without a moment's hesitation because of what he thinks of House Lannister and their pet monsters. He'd help do this because it's right. 

"Certainly preferable to all-out war." Sarella agreed and cocked an eyebrow. "Especially as our alliances are also expanding. Things could become… messy very quickly if this spiraled out of control. 

"House Martell is not here to set Westeros ablaze." Prince Doran's tone was final, though wry as he added. "I just saved it from _one_ catastrophe, after all. I do not wish to see another befall it." 

"Thank you, Your Grace." Dale breathed nervously.

"That said, House Martell and Dorne has personal grievances that demand answer."

"What of Gregor Clegane?" Oberyn demanded, standing up. "What of the Mountain that Rides?"

"We don't forget our friends, Prince Oberyn." The young Westerman repeated, then smiled sharply and coldly. "Guild Master Tollen told me to personally assure you that the Guild's going to do its best to capture the bastar-." 

"That is insulting." Nymeria objected and the man's tan turned red.

"I'm sorry, m'lady." Dale apologized sincerely. "Shitstain better?"

"Nymeria, another time." Oberyn stepped forward, uncomfortably close. "You wish to capture him alive."

"And deliver him to House Martell, Your Grace."

"And if you cannot?"

"We'll do our best, Your Grace. If not, his death won't be pretty." Dale looked apologetic. "We also can't control how he'll react. He might turn and fight. He might decide to run. Historically, a lot of the smaller banners on the Guild's bad side have run at times like these."

"If he runs he'll probably go into the Riverlands." Gwyn shuddered. "The borders easier."

"With Lord Edmure's current work against the brigandage problem, that might not be the case. He has his banners and his own knights well-organized, I understand." Doran mused and turned towards Sarella who blinked once and then smiled crookedly.

"He won't go into the Vale, he can't get there without crossing the Riverlands anyway. He might try and bolt for a Crownlands' port and Essos, but that'll be difficult going for the same reasons." Sarella stated. "You believe he'll run to the Reach."

"It makes perfect sense if, after his youngest child is born and his soulmate is resting safely and comfortably, your father should escort you to your wedding in Highgarden, niece." 

"Perfect sense." Oberyn echoed, a bloodthirsty grin on his face.

Beside Lyarra, Gwyn shivered, but in the flickering lamplight of Doran's study, Lyarra thought her friend's grin looked as much that of a hungry predator as her husband's.

"The Guild has only one more request." Master Dale cleared his throat. "There will be a trial and that'll include witnesses. You've done so much for us, and we're grateful to House Martell, but we need one of our own there to speak on it all. We'll not leave yet, of course, but in a couple moons the Guild would like Lady Gwyn to return to the Westerlands."

"No." Lyarra felt the word slip angrily from her lips at the same time as, to her shock, her friend spoke as well. The only difference was that Gwyn said, "Yes."

"Gwyn, you cannot be serious!" Lyarra reached out and Ghost, who'd been sitting calmly at her feet rose. The direwolf's back made a solid muscular grip for the pregnant princess to lever herself up. "You're not a warrior or an accountant or anything of that sort."

"No, but I am a child of the West." Gwyn shook her head, tears in her eyes and smiled. "I - I wouldn't have done it six moons ago, Lyarra. You couldn't have paid me all the gold locked in stone for it. I was too scared. I am afraid. I'll never be brave as you can be, but - this is something I learned from you."

"From me?" Lyarra stared at her. "I don't ever recall being suicidally-."

"House Stark does it's duty, Lyarra. Always, and you're the best of the lot." Gwyn's fingers were tangled with hers, their hands a mass of calluses and long, pale and tanned fingers. Gold and silver in the moonlight, wrapped together. "You told me once that you thought the Old Gods didn't do anything without a reason."

"You _laughed_ when I told you that."

"Someone had to." Gwyn grinned, tears in her eyes. "It was my turn to be practical then and your turn to be earnest and dutiful and righteous. Now it's your turn to be practical and raise your son. I'll be back! But first I have to do this. I need to go home."

"You never called it home before." Lyarra swallowed back tears, unable to believe this was happening and realizing it was. "Not really."

"I'd never been to Dorne before, either." Gwyn laughed and rubbed at her eyes after freeing one of her hands. "Which is very nice and the spices are really cheap but is very, _very_ different from what I grew up with. Besides, I'm not leaving now."

Lyarra wanted to argue that anything was too soon. Instead she was interrupted by the feel of a warm, lean arm wrapping around her from behind. She felt the compassion and worry that was rolling in waves off of her soulmate and leaned into it, physically and mentally 

"If the Lady Gwyn chooses to go, she may." Prince Doran agreed. "However, as I am sure my brother shall attest, no member of any Martell household - especially a lady - is going unguarded into a Lion's Den. Arrangements may be made in time."

"If Lady Gwyn needs a guard, I can go." Ser Cletus stepped forward, chin up. "Being Stony Dornish has some benefits. Between my freckles and my auburn hair I can pass for a Riverlander easily enough."

"And there are others in my household, House Dayne, and House Wyl who can pass reasonably well for a Westerlander." Lord Yronwood added, pride apparent as he looked to his son. "Dorne stands with you, my Prince. We will have justice."

"We shall." Oberyn agreed fiercely and Lyarra looked at Gwyn's face, worried, clear-eyed, smiling… and if not unafraid, at least uncowed.

“And until then, brother, let us not forget our manners.” Doran interjected smoothly and Oberyn turned to frown at him.

“What have manners do with any of this?”

Prince Doran turned and nodded towards Captain Hotah, who stood immobile in his place as guard. The tall, white-haired man did not smile, but there was a certain bright light in his eyes as he moved. From behind a tapestry he removed two spears, tall and proud. Each had a shaft of black dragonbone. One was etched with red-stained vipers twining about it. The other, gilt suns. 

“I have gifts for my son and brother.” Prince Doran sat, still smiling, but his dark eyes now glittering wickedly. “Of those gifts our house received from Essos after my efforts to ship the inoculation abroad there were several fantastic weapons. Among them was a great sword of Valyrian steel that was recovered from a shipwreck along the coast of Volantis.”

Lyarra gasped in admiration as the light of the oil lamps played over the long, sharp, points of the Dornish style spears. The weapon marked with vipers was handed to Oberyn, the other Quentyn. Lyarra felt a hint of slight jealousy but quashed it. Who wouldn’t at such a weapon? Arya was going to be delighted and terribly underfoot as she admired the dark, swirling, water-like waves of silver and near-black metal that made up the spearheads.

“It was no easy task to find a smith of Qohor who wasn’t Tobho Mott to do the work, but I’m pleased to say that there is an accomplished man in Lys who did the work of reforging the blade, and did it well.”

“Brother…” Oberyn turned the spear in the light, twisting it once in the air over their heads and then bringing it down in a stabbing motion that caused Lord Anders to wince, then glare. Quentyn admired his gift more sedately. “I do not know what to say! Thank you.”

“You may offer me your thanks by taking over a small duty for me, brother.” Doran’s voice was smooth and calm as sweetened poison and Lyarra found her eyes drawn to the kind, calm little smile on his face as he removed an object from beneath the blanket and held it out. “Do arrange for a messenger to take this to King's Landing to its proper owner. It’s only fitting we let him know that it was found amongst the treasure sent to us in thanks of late.”

“Son of a…” The Westerman present let out a muffled curse and Gwyn stifled a giggle behind her hand and whispered. “Is that what I think it is?”

Lyarra just stared as she watched her husband blink once, then twice down at the object Prince Doran held out. The golden sword hilt, cruciform and dingy with age and neglect, but still bright and of ancient make and quality, caught the lamplight and glimmered there. The rubies inset into the eyes of the roaring lion on the pommel seemed filled with helpless anger in the dim light. 

Oberyn stepped forward and, with a bow, accepted Brightroar’s hilt. The ancestral sword of House Lannister. Lost more than a century before somewhere in Old Valyria, _someone_ had found it… and given it to _Doran Martell_ …

“Brother, it would be my _deepest_ pleasure to return this to its rightful owner.” Oberyn’s tone was absolutely solemn. “My only regret is that I cannot do so _personally._ ” 

After the laughter and uproar that followed his comment died down details were discussed amidst the group until nearly sunrise. Exhausted, Lyarra allowed Oberyn to chivy her back to bed. Lyarra reflected again that one had to be careful what one prayed to the Old Gods for. Some of his malaise was lifted, though the turmoil was just beneath the surface. In its place now Lyarra was consumed with tumultuous feelings.

Was it any surprise that her labor pains began just a few hours later?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your patience! I'd like to alert everyone that this time I don't have a huge chapter buffer like I did before so I won't be posting on a regular schedule. Instead I'm posting as I write. I'm going to do my best to get at least one chapter posted a week, but we'll have to see how well I do. As always, thank you for reading!


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